Time Will Tale
by classic06
Summary: When the history teacher at William McKinley Prep reaches his wit's end at his students' inherent disregard for all things from the past and complete disrespect for the luxuries of the day, he decides to put them through a social experiment. What happens when the students of McKinley are transformed into a European court straight out of the history books? How far will things...
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summary:** When the history teacher at William McKinley Prep reaches his wit's end at his students' inherent disregard for all things from the past and complete disrespect for the luxuries of the day, he decides to put them through a social experiment. What happens when the students of McKinley are transformed into a European court straight out of the history books? How far will things go when a select few are granted far more power than they can handle?

**A/N: **So, a couple updates back, on my other fic, I mentioned having a surprise. Well, here it is, a brand, spanking, new fic. About the title: so many puns, I just couldn't not use it, lol. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy it. And whether you do enjoy it or you don't, please comment. Facing critique is the only way for a writer to truly improve.

* * *

+++TWT+++

A bump against her shoulder served as enough of a force to knock her precariously balanced books out of her hands as she dug through her locker for the elusive history notebook she would need for her next period. She had already been late to class her fair share of times precisely because of this predicament—her inability to locate the composition that was currently missing in action. Granted, if she had bothered to straighten out her locker at least once since she was forcibly transferred to this boarding school in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio a month or so back in the middle of the second week of school, it would probably be a hell of a lot easier to pinpoint her notebook's current location, but she preferred to place the blame on the course itself rather than on her inattention to organization in her locker. In her mind, the composition was merely hiding from the class to which it was subjugated, and frankly, Santana couldn't blame it. She had never been in a more taxing class with a more under-qualified teacher.

"Sorry."

Santana looked up to find the frumpy oaf of a quarterback, Finn Hudson, offering her an apologetic smile as he lumbered down the hall with his fellow incompetent teammates, their bright red letterman jackets a vivid contrast to the sea of white, navy, and powder blue uniforms navigating the hallways. She tilted her head to the side, effectively cracking her neck before a smirk that was more sneer than smile adorned her features.

"Oh, please," her smirk grew as the group of boys stopped at the sound of her voice, several of them turning to her with looks that could only be described as delightful anticipation. It seemed that she had already garnered quite the reputation in the few short weeks she had been attending school there. "If you were truly sorry, you would stop gorging yourself on chili dogs and sloppy joes in the cafeteria long enough to get off your fat ass and do some kind of exercise so that you don't take up the entire hallway every time you come stomping through it like an elephant in China. Or better yet, why don't you do us all a favor and finally go bra shopping so that you can strap those succulent babies down because, really, letting them run free like that is just a public safety hazard."

The clique of football players erupted in laughter, playfully pushing a red-faced Finn Hudson as they turned to continue on their way. A hand patted her on the shoulder with a, "Classic, Lopez" thrown her way, but she merely rolled her eyes.

"Or, if you were truly sorry, you would have actually helped me clean up the mess you made," Santana mumbled to herself as she knelt down to gather up her books. She went to pick up the last one, _Advanced Chemistry_, when a foot struck out, kicking the book down the hallway.

"Oops."

Santana looked up to find Bitch Fabray, the head of the cheerleading squad-in case anybody was wondering why she and her ho posse were able to constantly run around out of uniform (out of William McKinley Prep uniforms, that is) and in skankily short red and white skirts and too-tight halters—and a right pain in her ass, looking down at her.

Santana gritted her teeth as she glared at the hazel-eyed blonde, thoroughly ignoring her followers and their incessant giggling.

"What?" Quinn-as her mother called her-smiled as she crossed her arms. "Not so quick with your words when faced with someone more on your level, huh?"

"So you admit that your boyfriend is an illiterate dumbass?" Santana fired back. She swallowed hard when the group of cheerleaders stepped closer, effectively cornering her against the row of lockers. It wasn't that she was scared of Quinn Fabray, no, Quinn Fabray on her own was nothing more than a sad little girl with daddy issues; it was more so that she wasn't stupid. Her, on her own, pitted against Quinn Fabray and her army of athletically trained minions was not exactly her idea of a fair fight.

"What was that?" Quinn pressed.

"You heard me," Santana replied, though her voice was nowhere near as sure as it had been seconds before.

"You know," Quinn stepped closer still, and Santana realized she wouldn't even have enough room to stand up if she wanted to…definitely not a fair fight. "I could make your life a living hell."

"So you've been telling me every day, since I started school here," Santana rolled her eyes. Sure, she may be cornered and outnumbered, but she was not about to beg for mercy; it just wasn't in her blood.

"I would watch that botox injected mouth if I were you," Quinn's eyes narrowed.

A smirk found its way back to Santana's face as she mentally thanked Quinn for giving her such a perfect window of opportunity, "Sorry, but these babies are all natural," she motioned to her lips. "You see, unlike some people here, I have been graced with natural, God given good looks, and I don't have to go crying to my daddy once a month in order for him to pay to have my latest imperfection zapped away."

Quinn's hands clenched, and Santana knew she had hit a nerve.

"Oh, please," Quinn snarled. "Everybody knows the only reason you don't go crying to your daddy is because he is probably some deadbeat drunk passed out in the gutter somewhere, you scholarship case."

"You don't know one fucking thing about my father," Santana growled, starting up off the ground. As she straightened up, however, she realized a second too late that she was leaving herself exposed and was granted a firm knee to the stomach as a result. She crumpled back to the floor, arms around her midsection as she tried to recapture the air that had been forcefully expelled from her lungs.

"You just make it too easy, Lopez," Quinn shook her head.

"Hey guys, what's up?" a careless voice greeted them.

Santana looked up to find a tall blonde, in matching red and white, approaching the group, her catlike eyes, shining a curious blue as she took them all in.

"Hey Britt," Quinn greeted her with a smile, her arm held out. "Just dealing with a few things."

"What things?" Brittany asked as she linked her arms through Quinn's.

"Petty things," Quinn shrugged.

Brittany raised an eyebrow. Her eyes drifted from Quinn to Santana who was still on the ground, holding her stomach as if trying to keep all of her innards from spilling onto the floor. "You _are_ very pretty, Santana."

Santana bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing as she watched Quinn struggling against the urge to snap at her as Brittany turned back to face her.

"Ready for class?" Brittany asked.

"Let's go," Quinn replied through her teeth.

Santana watched as the group of cheerleaders walked away with a sigh. The swish of their skirts reminding her just how accurate Quinn had been with her threat of making her life miserable. This was a collegiate preparatory school where there was just as much an emphasis on extracurricular activities as on academics because what is a college applicant without extracurriculars? And of course, when it came to extracurriculars, sports ruled the world, meaning the athletes—cheerleaders included—could probably get away with murder if they so desired. Sure, people laughed as she lashed out at Finn, but did anybody come to her rescue when she was cornered ten to one against the lockers?

And no, Brittany didn't count, because it wasn't as if she had walked up to them with the means of helping her. The girl had just been in search of Quinn, so they could get to class—it was common knowledge that the oft confused blonde had a tendency to get lost on her way around campus—and Santana just so happened to be there in the way. Sure, she turned out to be helpful—whether or not she meant to—but Santana knew that that didn't serve as a determination of her character. From what she's heard, Brittany was exactly like all of the other cheerleaders: elitist, bitchy, and nonplussed by those around her. There was even a rumor going around that she had pushed the wheelchair kid, Artie Abrams, down a flight of stairs, and that is why he hadn't been in school all week.

The soft scuffling sound of an object gliding across the linoleum tiled floors reached her ears a second before her Advanced Chem book slid into her line of vision. Santana looked up to find Brittany turning back to face forward as she continued down the hall with the group of cheerleaders.

+++TWT+++

The tardy bell gave a shrill ring as Santana hurried into class, her history composition and textbook secured in her book bag that was flung half hazard over her shoulder.

"Finally found yourself a watch, I see," Mr. Schuester nodded from where he stood at the front of the room. He was leaning back against his wooden desk that sat before the class, one foot in front of the other, trying to appear casually cool, as if oblivious to the fact that each year that passed widened the age gap between him and his students.

Santana's eyes fell to the group of four cheerleaders who were seated at the front of the class. Quinn Fabray smiled, ecstatic at the idea of Santana being embarrassed in front of the entire class. The two cheerleaders at the table behind her didn't even bother to hide their giggles behind their hands. The cheerleader sitting next to her, however, was doodling across her notebook page, seemingly in her own world. Brittany. Santana suddenly found herself wishing for the tall girl to focus back on the present, so that she could shut Quinn up once more, but Brittany just kept on doodling. A soft melodious sound reached her ears, and Santana realized that the girl was humming as well. Of course.

The giggling grew louder, and Santana snapped out of her thoughts, realizing that she was standing at the front of the classroom with her mouth open like an idiot, waiting for some dimwitted cheerleader to come to her rescue. She rounded on Mr. Schuester who was smiling broadly, thinking that the laughter was based on his witty retort rather than the person his retort was aimed towards.

"I see you finally found a twelve step program that was willing to take up the daunting task of helping you with your hopeless addiction to the horrendous sweater vests you insist on torturing our eyes with day in and day out, oh wait…" Santana let her gaze fall to the vest currently adorning her teacher's torso where she stared pointedly. "Guess not. Well, there's always tomorrow, Mr. Schue."

This time the entire class erupted into laughter, and Santana smiled at her teacher, as if to say, 'See, that's how you do it'.

"And there is always detention, Santana," Mr. Schuester called after her as she made her way to her table in the back of the class where she was forced to sit next to a boy with a sad excuse of a Mohawk that was clearly against uniform regulations, but the letterman jacket slung over the back of his chair allowed him to get away with.

A teasing 'Ooo,' resounded through her classmates, but Santana just shrugged it off as she took her seat. She didn't mind detention. It was a quiet place where she was able to get her homework done without the incessant talking of her roommate. In fact, sometimes, she went so far as to purposefully get detention when she a had a big project or paper to work on because she knew it was the only way she would be able to do her work in peace.

She took out her five subject notebook from her book bag. Barely two months into the first semester, and she was already working her way into the fourth subject, various sticky tabs and note cards stuck out from the sides. Santana liked history. The mass of scribbled notes throughout her composition should not serve as any accurate measure of the current class in which she was seated or its teacher, though. She would take semi-notes during class as she drifted in and out of the lecture as Mr. Schuester droned on about things he only sort of knew yet tried to pass off as if he were the expert on the matter. How did she know this? The same way she managed to fill up the majority of a notebook in a few weeks' time: she took her semi-notes back to her dorm or the library and did the research herself. It was the only way for her fixation with the past and the millions of stories it possessed to be quelled. Granted, there were times when her attention would begin to wane, and she would go from researching the Goths and their ability to go from a barbarous tribe to the group that would lay the first chink in the Roman Empire's seemingly impenetrable armor and effectively go on to play a massive role in the Empire's destruction to watching hours of Youtube videos of Amy Winehouse, Rosemary Clooney, Jessie J, Patty Griffin, Sarah Vaughn, and Lady Gaga—her current musical obsessions.

This habit would undoubtedly lead to some of the finer details of her research being lost amongst the music, but it wasn't as if they actually talked about the Gothic Wars in class. They had only a year to go over the world's history in its entirety, meaning Mr. Schuester had gone from name dropping Constantine to a brief Great Schism reference to the medieval period in Western Europe. Now that they were near the Renaissance, they were appearing to slow down, but Santana could only guess how long that would last. She also couldn't help but wonder how much of the brief introduction and stalling midsection had to do with time constraints and how much had to do with Mr. Schuester's lack of knowledge about the early world and its inhabitants.

"Alright, class, please turn to Chapter 8 in your text book, and we will continue on with our discussion of The Hundred Years War," Mr. Schuester instructed. About two-thirds of the class shuffled half-hazard through their textbooks, only half of those actually bothering to find the correct chapter. The rest didn't even bother with the pretense of opening their books. Next to her, Noah Puckerman, the douche with the balding Mohawk, was already face-down on the desk, drooling in his sleep. Santana grimaced and scooted her chair and books as far down the table as she could.

"Now, who can tell me why Joan of Arc is a well known historical figure? What did she do?" Mr. Schuester prompted, his eyes darting around the room, hopeful for a raised hand. One hand shot in the air, but he purposefully ignored it, looking for anyone else to step up to the plate. When nobody did, he sighed, and nodded, "Yes, Brittany, do you have a question?"

"No, I have an answer," Brittany replied, the smile in her voice evident even from where Santana sat at the back of the room.

Santana straightened up so that she had a better view of the front table. Brittany was sitting up straight, her arm still held high in the air as Quinn slouched next to her, shaking her head softly.

"Okay…" Mr. Schuester said wearily. "Why was Joan of Arc important, Brittany?"

"Because she was the title character of a semi-popular show that ran from September 2003 until April 2005," Brittany replied surely.

Santana cringed as the room erupted in laughter. Brittany slowly pulled down her hand. Quinn snorted loudly next to her, and Brittany turned to her with a look of such hurt that Santana briefly felt herself starting to feel sorry for the tall girl, but then she remembered who she was talking about, and settled for rolling her eyes instead.

"Funny," Mr. Schuester frowned at her before turning and walking over to the whiteboard where he began writing. "Joan of Arc as we know her today is a semi-folk/semi-historical figure whose part in the Siege of Orleans is said to have helped turned the tides of the Hundred Years War. Even more important, though, would be Philip the Good whose signing of the Treaty of Arras played an even bigger part in France's victory."

Santana's eyes moved from watching Brittany turn in her chair so that she was all but blocking Quinn out of her view to raising an eyebrow at the man standing before the class. Wasn't Philip III the man responsible for Joan's execution? Of course a sleaze that couldn't pick a side would be considered to have played a bigger role than a simple, naïve girl. Of course.

"Philip the Good my ass," Santana mumbled. She spent the rest of the class drifting in and out of the lecture, checking in only long enough to jot down a few important terms: Joan of Arc: More than a tv show, Philip III: Judas Reincarnate?, Battle of Castillon: End of a Hundred Years of Nothing, Christopher Columbus: Idiot. Santana's head tilted as she looked down at the last name in her notes. Looked like they were going back to warp speed.

"Alright, seeing as most of you guys checked out over forty-five minutes ago, I guess, I'm gonna call it a day," Mr. Schuester sighed. The effect was immediate as the noise of compositions and textbooks being shoved into book bags filled the room. "But next time, I want you all to come with your learning caps on because we are going to be discussing the pan-European Renaissance and more importantly, King Henry VIII and how he brought the English Renaissance to its climax during his rule."

"Queen Elizabeth who?" Santana sighed as she put her own belongings back into her bag—looked like after detention, she would once again be making her way to the library.

"And Brittany," Mr. Schuester's voice rose to be heard over the shuffling of belongings and exiting footsteps of students. "I would like a five page paper on my desk by next Friday on Joan of Arc. Maybe then when it comes time for the test, you may actually have a clue who she is…or what class we're in," he chuckled at himself.

"Yes sir," Brittany nodded as she gathered her things.

Santana frowned as she made her way to the front of the class. She wasn't sure, but for someone who was obviously so far behind on their normal assignments, Santana didn't think adding to the pile would be helpful in anyway.

Quinn hurried to Mr. Schuester's desk, lowering her voice, "Mr. Schue, couldn't you reconsider? I mean, Brittany wasn't trying to be a nuisance or anything. She just…we've been really busy with cheerleading lately."

Santana paused to retie her already tied shoes, watching as Brittany hurried from the class, a hint of pink still dusting her cheeks.

"Would you reconsider the extra assignment if I promise to help her catch up?" Quinn batted her eyelashes, her voice sugary sweet.

"I don't know, Quinn…" Mr. Schuester began.

"I really don't think Coach Sylvester would take too kindly to you assigning her co-captain extra work the week before our district competition, Mr. Schue," her voice losing all sweetness from moments before.

Santana swore she heard Mr. Schuester gulp.

"Well, as long as you promise to help her…"

"I promise," Quinn nodded, all smiles again as she turned. "You heard, that, Britt-Britt? Brittany? Hey Brittany, wait up!"

Santana shook her head as Quinn hurried off after her co-captain. She mentally berated herself for feeling sorry for the blue-eyed blonde. She'd heard rumors about the cheerleaders and football players earning favoritism in class because of their status, but she hadn't ever been privy to its actual happenings before now. She felt an odd mixture of being cheated and disgusted.

"Detention, 3:30, Santana," Mr. Schuester called after her as she made her way out of the class.

"Bet if I was a skirt, I wouldn't have to go," she replied.

"What was that?"

Santana turned back to him, "It will be the highlight of my day, Mr. Schue." She curtseyed, and he waved her out, a slight smile forming on his features.

She walked out into the all but empty hallway, and she pulled out her phone to find they had been let out of class nearly twenty minutes early. She slipped her phone back into the side pocket of her book bag and made her way down the hall. She turned the corner to head towards the staircase, glad to not have to navigate its slender passage in the between class rush for once, but froze at the sound of an insistent voice that she unfortunately recognized. She stepped back around the corner and slowly inched her head around the wall to find Quinn and Brittany standing in the otherwise abandoned hallway, the shorter of the two wringing her hands anxiously as she spoke. For her part, Brittany seemed as if she could care less what the head cheerleader had to say.

Santana couldn't make out the exact words that they were saying, but their tones made the meanings of their words quite clear. Quinn's whispers rushed out frantically and were only met with short, clipped responses from Brittany. Santana's eyebrows raised as Quinn reached out to keep Brittany from walking away and Brittany turned back with an icy glare that made even Santana shiver. The glare slowly dissipated from an angry stare to a disappointed shake of the head. Quinn's head fell as she whispered much more softly than before. Brittany gave one more clipped reply and turned to go, Quinn following slowly behind, her head still hanging.

It wasn't until the two had turned another corner that Santana finally walked fully into the hall. "What the hell was that?" she muttered aloud as she made her way towards the staircase. What had made Brittany so angry at Quinn? Didn't Quinn tell her how she just saved her from having to do that essay? Another shiver ran down Santana's spine as remembered Brittany's cold eyes. They seemed so out of place on the girl's normally calm exterior. Sure, she was known to be a bitch, but to be that cold, that angry? It was unheard of. She climbed the stairs one by one, taking her time to wonder on what she had just been privy to witness. She silently thanked her disinterested class of teenagers for allowing them to be let out of class early, because there is no way the two cheerleaders would have ever had a discussion like that if they knew there were prying eyes and ears. Santana reached the top of the staircase and a scrawling smirk drew across her face at the thought of seeing Quinn chase after Brittany not once by twice today. Sure, Quinn may be the head cheerleader, but it was quite obvious that Brittany was the true queen of the school.

* * *

_Born of a poor peasant farmer, Joan of Arc never learned to read or write,_ Santana read to herself from her history textbook before scribbling that note down into her notebook, drawing a star next to it, clearly marking it as something she would further research once she had access to a computer. She wasn't sure why, but the idea behind that sentence struck something deep within her, turning her stomach, yet raising her blood for action. Her eyes went back to skimming the text book when another sentence struck out at her: _Joan first became aware of the 'voices' at the age of thirteen and set out to do their bidding at the age of 16. _

"Sixteen," Santana whispered in awe. "She was younger than me when she set out to stop a century long war. Well, I recycled a plastic bottle this morning, so take that Joan."

Santana rolled her eyes at herself as she went back to paraphrasing the important information she found in her textbook, starring the lines she wanted to go back and look deeper into.

The desk beside her scraped along the floor as someone sat down and scooted closer. She didn't even have to look up to know who it was—the overpowering smell of Axe was evidence enough.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked with a sigh. A glance to the front of the room showed that the detention monitor had walked out.

"I just wanted to introduce myself," Noah replied with a smile that he clearly thought was charming.

"I know who you are; we have three classes together, one in which we share a table that you insist on drooling upon every single lecture."

Noah laughed off her response before holding out his hand, "The name's Noah Puckerman. My friends call me Puck, though, so you should too because I can see us getting real _friendly_ in the near future."

Santana stared at him blankly for a second, waiting for the laugh that would prove this as some sort of a joke. When the laugh didn't come, she in turn scoffed, "Wait, are you serious? Is that your idea of a pickup line? If so, then I hope, no, I pray that you are never the last man on Earth, and the future of the human race never depends on you having to convince some poor girl to reproduce with you because mankind would not stand a chance."

Noah's smile flattened, "What? That line has a 97% success rate."

"On your hand, maybe."

Noah's eyes widened as he stared at her in shock.

"You act as if a girl has never turned you down before, which is hard to believe because with those moves, I can't see how anybody would ever do the opposite."

"Damn, when you knock a guy down, you just keep swinging, don't you?" Noah shook his head.

"Yes, well, you interrupted my studying for nonsense, so I feel it's deserved," she shrugged, turning back to her notes.

"Well, you study too much."

"Can you even spell 'study'?" Santana countered, her voice thinning as her patience waned. She glanced up at the empty desk at the front of the room. "Where is the monitor? Shouldn't he be in here keeping an eye on things, and by things, I mean you."

Noah just smiled in reply.

"For God's sake, lose the smirk. You look like a cheap Elvis impersonator."

"The monitor always ditches us fifteen minutes in to go on a twenty minute 'bathroom break', in which he bangs the school nurse," Noah supplied. "Which is something you would have known by now if you didn't study too much."

Santana couldn't think of a proper retort for that, so she settled with the simple yet always effective, "Do us both a favor, and go fuck yourself."

+++TWT+++

Santana sighed as the hot water poured over her. After detention, she had spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening in the library. She then followed it up by a stop at the campus gym which was opened to all students from the hours of 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., the only time period that it wasn't booked by either the football team or the cheerleaders, but mostly the cheerleaders. She found that nothing helped the inevitable crick in her neck and spinning in her head that occurred after long, consecutive hours of school work like a nice, hard run. She reached for the shampoo, squirting an insane amount onto her palm in order to lather up in her thick hair.

The sound of the heavy bathroom door opening and closing was barely audible from where she stood beneath a heavy stream of water. Soon, another stream of water joined hers from a few stalls down. Santana groaned, knowing there was only ever one other person that be in the showers this late on a school night.

_The joy of communal bathrooms,_ Santana inwardly grumbled.

She had rinsed her hair and grabbed her conditioner—_dime-sized amount, my ass_, she rolled her eyes—when the inevitable singing started. Tonight's song choice: "I'm the Greatest Star" from Funny Girl.

For the first few times of the first couple of weeks that this had happened, Santana cursed, loudly, and in Spanish, then English, to make sure the singer understood her meaning. The past couple of weeks, though, when this happened, Santana smiled because she had a counter attack of her own. The singer would begin to belt some over the top song from a Broadway musical, and Santana would begin her own rendition of the most sexual song she could think of at the time.

"_Well, I'm miffed cause I'm the greatest star. I am by far, but no one knows it,_" the singer sang.

Then Santana joined in, her voice smoky as she jazzed up and slowed down her favorite Cyndi Lauper song, "_Hey…I've been thinking of a new sensation…I'm picking up good vibrations, Ooo, She bop, she bop…Do I wanna go out with a lion's roar? Yeah, I wanna go south and get me more…Hey, they say that a stich in time save nine. They say I better stop or I'll go blind, but Ooo, She bop, she bop_."

The singer predictably raised her voice, magnifying her song, "_When you're gifted, then you're gifted, these are the facts. I've got no axe to grind. Hey, what are ya, blind? In all of the world so far, I'm the greatest star!_"

Santana, not in the least deterred, only sang louder, "_Hey, they say I better get a chaperone, oh, because I cannot stop messing with the danger zone, oh no, no, no, no. But I won't worry, no, I won't fret because there ain't no law against it yet, Oh! She bop, she bop. She bop, she bop!"_

The singer finally relented, and ceased her song. Santana smiled, turning off her shower victoriously. She stepped through the first set of shower curtains and grabbed her fluffy black towel, drying off as much as she could before slipping into her pajamas. She then gathered her things in her shower caddy and stepped through the second set of curtains and out into the long bathroom. She walked past the row of shower stalls, hearing the singer turn off her own supply of water, and headed over to the row of sinks and mirrors. She pulled out her comb, carefully running it through her hair, so as not to anger it—life was always easier that way—before locating her tooth brush and beginning to brush her teeth. The singer exited her shower stall and stopped at the sink farthest away from her.

Santana spit out her toothpaste heavily, causing the singer's rather large, hooked nose to wrinkle in disgust. Santana allowed a small smirk before gathering her things once more and heading out of the bathroom. She made her way down the long carpeted hall to her dorm room. She unlocked the door and walked in, not even bothering to turn on the lights. She made sure to stay on her side of the room—the right side—until she felt her hand grasp the foot of her bed. Her shower caddy was placed onto the floor, and she collapsed onto her bed. She briefly entertained the thought of falling asleep right there, as is, but didn't allow the dream to last long. Instead, she sat up, and reached under her bed, pulling out a flat Rubbermaid container, popping up the lid, and pulling out her blow dryer and large, rounded hair brush. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she was able to quickly find the outlet between her bed and the wall. She turned the dryer on low—once again, so as to not anger her hair—and set herself to the long task of drying her hair.

She had just finished and had finally been able to settle down in her bed, beneath the cool sheets when the door to her room opened, and her roommate snuck in quietly. She felt the smirk returning to her face as her roommate climbed into her own bed on the opposite wall. Santana began to hum the chorus to "She Bop" just loud enough for her roommate to hear. It wasn't often she got the chance to out annoy her ever-obnoxious roommate, so when presented with the chance, she always ran with it.

A loud groan emitted from the other side of the room, "Goodnight Santana!"

Santana laughed openly at her roommate—her roommate, the singer. "Goodnight, Rachel."


	2. Chapter 2

Santana vaguely registered the agitation growing in Mr. Schuester's voice. If the lecture wasn't so inaccurately one dimensional and the lecturer so drole, she may actually feel bad that every student in the class, bar one, was too busy doing homework for other teachers, texting, Facebook stalking, or sleeping to even bother to pretend to be paying attention. But as it were, Santana was too engaged in trying not to laugh at the memes the fairy boy sitting in the row beside her, one table up was scrolling through on Pintrest to care.

A dry erase marker being placed on the small shelf lining the bottom of the white board louder than necessary drew Santana, the fairy boy, and a handful of other students' attentions to the front of the classroom. The discomposure in her teacher's furrowed brow and heated glare gave Santana the feeling that Mr. Schuester had done it one purpose.

"Now, as I was saying, while Italy was busy celebrating the rebirth of all this Greek art and literature in the 14th Century," he continued.

"Pretty sure it was Latin literature," Santana mumbled under her breath. "Greek art and literature wasn't till the 15th Century, but who cares about a little thing such as dates in a history class?"

The curvy black girl seated at the table to her right, behind the fairy boy stifled a giggle with her hand. Santana smirked.

"Is there something funny, Santana?" Mr. Schuester paused, causing several students to turn back and look at her. "Maybe you should share your joke with the rest of the class. It must have been really funny in order for you to insist on interrupting my lecture with it."

The students looking at her couldn't hide their smirks.

Santana bristled before shaking her head, "Funny? No, sir, I just had a question. You see, I'm pretty sure Italy was celebrating the rebirth of Latin literature in the 14th Century. The re-emergence of Greek works didn't really kick off until the 15th Century. I mean, I'm sure you know that, you probably just forgot about the fact that the 14th Century actually stands for the 1300's and not the 1400's. I used to do that all the time too…back when I was in middle school."

The section of class that had been paying attention erupted into laughter, and it was Mr. Schuester's turn to bristle.

"Detention, Santana," he replied stiffly.

Santana shrugged, and he turned back to the board to compose himself.

"Once again, as I was saying, while Italy was busy celebrating the rebirth of…celebrating the Renaissance," he amended, not thoroughly admitting his mistake, but it was close enough to make the detention worth it for Santana. "The English had their hands full with something far less joyful and far more deadly. The Plague," he said while writing it on the board in big black letters beneath several other historical figures and places he had been discussing.

Santana sighed deeply before she picked up her pencil and started to jot down the terms off of the board into her notebook.

"The Plague, also known as the Black Death, goes down in English history as perhaps the most infamous pandemic ever," Mr. Schuester noted.

Santana's pencil halted above her paper. She was pretty sure Italy was affected by the Plague too, as well as the rest of Europe and parts of Asia, but she was not in the mood for a weekend detention as well, so she kept that thought to herself.

"It began in the summer of 1348 and faded out a little over a year later in the winter of 1349, but in that short time span it managed to kill around fifty percent of England's population. Fifty percent," he emphasized. "That means, if you would all turn to your table partner…"

The trickling amount of students still listening—most had gone back to their previous distractions as soon as things had calmed down—all turned to the person sitting next to them. Santana rolled her eyes at Puck who was, as always, sound asleep with his mouth wide open, strangled snores emitting from back within his throat.

"That means that one person from every table would be dead," Mr. Schuester went on. "Now, why is it that The Plague was so quickly and easily spread throughout the country?"

His eyes moved around the room, his frown growing when nobody raised their hand and most didn't even look up from their phones. His fist came down on his podium causing several disconcerted students to jump in their seats. "I said, why was the plague so easily spread? Anyone?"

The students were sitting back down in their chairs, once again falling back to their previous time killers.

"Puck?" Mr. Schuester prompted.

Santana was caught between rolling her eyes because of course Mr. Schuester was the type of teacher to refer to students by their nicknames and raising her eyebrows because Mr. Schuester was not the type of teacher to call on unsuspecting students at random.

"Puck," he prompted again, his agitation visibly growing.

Santana glanced to her left to see Puck still in a deep sleep. She jerked her leg under the table, effectively kicking him in the shin. Puck jolted upright in his chair.

"What the hell, girl?" he glared at Santana.

"I'd like an answer, Puck," Mr. Schuester called his attention to the front impatiently.

"Answer to what?" he asked, wiping the drool from the side of his mouth, and giving Santana a look of mixed gratitude and an apology.

Santana ignored him, watching as Mr. Schuester took a deep breath.

"Why did the plague spread so quickly?"

"Lack of proper protection," Puck replied, a glint in his eye.

Mr. Schuester's face brightened for a second with hope, "Explain."

"Well, back in the day they didn't know about proper protection from disease and stuff," a smirk started to grow on his face.

"What kind of protection?"

"You know," Puck pushed his chair back, allowing him to stand up so he could thrust his hips provocatively, "Protection."

The class burst into laughter, and Santana was stuck between chuckling, wanting to throw up, and being weary over Mr. Schuester's reaction.

"That's enough!" Mr. Schuester commanded, hitting his fist on his podium once more.

_That's really gonna hurt later_, Santana thought to herself.

"I am really tired of you all acting like this class is some kind of joke. This stuff is important. You need to know this."

The curvy girl the row over raised her hand.

"Yes, Mercedes?" he sighed.

"But why do we need to know it, Mr. Schue?" she asked before motioning down to the Econ book that lay open in front of her. "I mean, I need to know economics because I need to know how not to get ripped off when I go buy that new pair of jeans that has been calling my name, but when am I going to need to know about some stupid disease besides in another history class?"

"Because it is important. We need to learn the lessons our ancestors found out the hard way in order to not have to relive them."

"But with technology today, we're never going to have another disease like that," the fairy boy in front of her pointed out. "They'll just invent a vaccine, and we'll be good to go."

"Do you know how long it takes to invent a vaccine, Kurt?" Mr. Schuester asked. "It could take years. The earliest documented case of HIV was nearly seventy years ago, and we have yet to create a vaccine for that."

Santana watched as Kurt stiffened. She couldn't help but wonder if HIV was used for argument's sake or because of Kurt's obvious sexual orientation, and she had the feeling Kurt was wondering the same thing.

"Then, after a vaccine is created, it has to be approved. That can take anywhere from 1-10 years. The Plague only needed a year and a half to wipe out half of England's population."

"Times were different back then, Mr. Schue," Quinn noted from her seat at the front, next to Brittany who was seemingly busy doodling in her notebook. "We know the importance of good hygiene and washing our hands now. It wouldn't spread that fast."

"You think that is why it spread so fast? The cities of England were full to the max. They had people on top of people, houses on top of houses. As soon as you walked out your door, you were engulfed in a swarm of humans. Does any of that sound familiar? Have any of you ever been to New York?"

"Is now really the time to be recruiting for your Glee Club, Mr. Schue?" Quinn questioned.

"No, I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the boundless apartment buildings stacked horizontally and vertically, the throngs of people lining the streets to get to their everyday jobs. Living conditions may be more sanitary now, but if a disease like that hits New York, the city would be flattened."

"But we don't live in New York," Puck said.

"Downtown Lima is just as bad," he shook his head. "Government housing pressed together in order to fit as many families as possible. What about your very dormitories? Don't tell me you don't feel squished as bugs. There is a reason it is mandatory for you guys to get the flu shot every year along with the standard vaccinations you must maintain in order to attend school here."

"Why didn't they do something about it then?" Mercedes asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why didn't the people back then do something about it? If they knew that a disease was being spread, why didn't they move?"

"It is not that simple," Mr. Schuester sighed. "First off, most did not even know the disease was being spread until it had hit their town and they were possibly affected. Information traveled slow back then. Second, many of them couldn't just get up and move. They were struggling to support their families, how could they afford a move? Where would they go? Many more were tied to the land through fuedaldom?"

"How slow could information have moved? You mean slow like an email? Or slow like overnight delivery?" Mercedes asked.

"Tied to the land as in handcuffs?" Puck asked.

"Wanky," Santana nodded, causing a few laughs.

More hands rose into the air with questions, but the bell rang, signaling the end of the class, and the nearing of the weekend.

Mr. Schuester waved the hands down, a tired look in his eyes, "We'll continue this discussion next class."

The students with their hands up groaned as they lowered them and gathered up their books.

A small, proud smile formed on Mr. Schuester's face as the class rushed out.

"Santana," he stopped her as she neared the door.

"Yea, I know, detention," she rolled her eyes.

"How about you take the afternoon off?" he suggested. "It's the weekend after all."

"Whatever," she shrugged before walking off, leaving him there with a confused look on his face at not having received the gratitude and praise he was expecting.

Santana walked a ways down the hall that was overflowing with students before she came to a halt, contemplating. If she continued down the path in front of her, she would be headed to her final class for the week: Spanish II. However, if she hooked a left and took the small hallway that cut across the building, she would be led to her locker where she could grab whatever books she needed for homework and call it a week.

A large body collided with her own, causing her to smack into the nearby wall to her right. She shook her head in order to get her brain to stop spinning, and she looked to find Finn Hudson walking away from her down the hall as he high-fived one of his teammates. The pair were headed towards her Spanish class.

"Fuck that," Santana mumbled as she took the small hallway to her left instead.

It wasn't as if she would be missing anything, anyway. She was the only fluent Spanish speaker in a class overflowing with idiots that had yet to make it past the first chapter of the book…the Spanish I book. So, she and Mr. Martinez, the Spanish teacher, had made a deal: she only had to be present at two of the three classes a week, and only had to remain awake during one of those two, in exchange for not verbally degrading the other students during class, too much. Since she had attended both classes so far that week, and even stayed awake throughout the Monday lecture—Monday's tended to be her class of choice to remain conscious for since the lessons usually revolved around Spanish culture instead of grammar—she had no obligation to attend class that afternoon.

Santana reached her locker, her fingers easily gliding through the combination to open it. She unzipped her booksack and took out her Spanish book and notebook, replacing them with British Literature and Calculus. She quickly closed her locker door before anything could fall out as tended to happen and gave the dial a small spin to lock it. As she zipped up her booksack, she took note of the color red approaching out of the corner of her eye.

"Hey, chica," a voice teased. "Or should I say, hola?"

Santana slipped on her booksack and looked up to find Quinn flanked by two of her giggling minions walking down the hall towards her.

"Shouldn't you be in class?" Santana questioned.

"Coach Sylvester wrote us an excuse," Quinn referred to the cheerleading coach as she waved a small yellow paper at her. "Our district competition is coming up, and we need to be in tip top shape. So, she excused the squad from their final class for the next two weeks to allow us an hour to run before we head to our normal workouts."

"You workout?" Santana raised an eyebrow. "Couldn't tell."

Quinn's eyes widened before they darkened, "Yes, I workout. Being a Cheerio isn't all about privilege and parties, you know. We are highly trained athletes that push our bodies to their limits every single day in the search of perfection."

"Could've fooled me with the way your top is hugging your stomach," Santana replied, glancing at the other girl's midsection. "Put on a few, have you? I wonder what your coach is going to say to that."

"I know you're just trying to rile me up," Quinn countered.

"Am I?"

"It won't work."

Santana chuckled, "I would hurry off to my running if I were you. You need all the extra laps you can get."

"Not that it's any of your business, but we're looking for Brittany."

"Good luck with that," Santana nodded, turning to go.

She paused when a tall figure turned the corner of the small cut-across hallway and headed towards them. Short shorts did little to cover long, toned legs. The zipper of her thin pink hoodie was barely pulled up to mid stomach with nothing but a white sports bra beneath revealing the top of a defined core. Her hood was pulled over her head from which the ends of a blonde pony tail spilled out from one side. A white wire leading up into the hoodie hinted at a pair of headphones to which undoubtedly was supplying the music to which her head was bobbing, her eyes closed in enjoyment.

"There she is," Quinn sighed in relief.

A smile reached Brittany's face when she opened her eyes and caught sight of them. It turned curious when she noticed Santana there as well. She took out one of her earbuds before speaking, "I've been looking for you guys."

"Probably would've been easier with your eyes open," Santana offered softly.

"I told you to sit and wait at your class, and we would come get you," Quinn replied, not doing a very good job at hiding the agitation in her voice.

"I'm not a dog," Brittany answered with a slight frown before turning to Santana. "Hey, getting an early start on the weekend?"

"Yeah," Santana nodded, eyes darting around nervously. She had never had an actual conversation with the other girl before, and she wasn't exactly sure of the protocol. With Brittany's reputation, she was afraid of saying the wrong thing and earning a lovely purple eye that would definitely clash with her powder blue uniform.

"We're going for a run if you would like to join us," Brittany offered. "You seem to be in very good shape, so I am guessing you run a lot."

"Brittany, it's a Cheerios run," Quinn cut in. "And speaking of which, where is your uniform?"

"It isn't comfortable to run in," she shrugged. "It's all thick and itchy."

"I doubt Coach Sylvester cares about comfort."

"Have you seen the tracksuits she wears? I don't think she does it for the fashion."

Santana chuckled, and Quinn's eyes darted to her.

"What about you? Shouldn't you be in class right now? I'm sure Principal Figgins would love to learn of his newest student's ditching habits."

"I'm not ditching; I was excused from my Spanish class," Santana replied.

"Let me guess, the teacher's your cousin, right?" Quinn smirked.

"Oh, because we're all related, right?" Santana rolled her eyes. It seemed Quinn was taking her frustrations with Brittany out on her, but if she wanted to get a rise out of her, she would have to do better than that.

"Isn't he a bit old to be her cousin? He'd be more like an uncle, right?" Brittany wondered out loud.

Quinn's jaw twitched, and it was Santana's turn to smirk.

"Good point, Brittany. It seems like Quinn, here, is slacking off on her insults. Maybe she's losing touch."

Brittany smiled at the compliment, bouncing on her toes happily. Santana watched her curiously, trying to connect the image before her with what she knew of the girl, but failing.

"Um, Quinn," one of the cheerios behind her, a blonde with brunette eyebrows, tentatively interrupted.

"What?" Quinn rounded on the girl angrily.

"If w-we don't go now, we won't be able to get three miles in before workouts."

Quinn huffed before turning back to Santana, giving her one final glare before holding her arm out to Brittany who put her earbud back in and took the offered elbow happily.

"Have a good weekend," Brittany smiled at Santana as she passed.

Quinn clenched her fists tightly.

"You too, Brittany," Santana did nothing to hold back her laughter as she turned and headed towards the opposite end of the hall. Getting out of school early, getting the best of Quinn…it seemed like it would be a very good weekend, and it was only getting started.

+++TWT+++

Santana lay on her back on top of her bed, her arms raised high above her, conducting the brassy horn section as it poured from her speakers.

"_The blues'll lay low, I'll make 'em stay low,_

_They'll never trail over my head._

_I'll be a devil till I'm an angel,_

_But until then…Halelujah_!" she sang along with Sarah Vaughan's version of "I'm Gonna Live Until I Die".

"_Gonna dance, gonna fly, I'll take a chance, ridin' high._

_Before my number's up, I'm gonna fill my cup._

_I'm gonna live, live, live_—"

The door to the dorm room swung open, and Santana shot upright with a growl.

"Dammit, Rachel! Why do you insist on always ruining my jams!" she fumed, staring down the shorter girl who had frozen in the doorway. "That's like the fourth time in two weeks. I swear to God, if you run out this time like you've done the other times making your interruption for naught, I will slaughter a pig on your bed."

Rachel started to shake as she stood, eyes darting between the room and the hallway.

"What's the hold up?" another voice demanded as Rachel was pushed fully into the small room. Mercedes entered behind her, followed by Kurt, both of whose eyes widened when they came upon Santana.

"_She's_ your roommate?" Mercedes asked in disbelief as she made herself comfortable on Rachel's bed.

"Yeah, Rachel, I don't think she was—" Kurt began, only to be harshly shushed by an extremely nervous looking Rachel.

"Sarah Vaughan," Mercedes nodded in appreciation. "You know, when I saw you, I just knew…that girl had taste."

Santana gave a tentative smile back, "Not many people our age get this kind of music."

"Well, I have high standards," Mercedes grinned.

"Seriously, Rachel," Kurt tried again, his eyes taking in the Bob Marley poster and stack of Victoria's Secret magazines on Santana's side of the room. "I really don't think she was doing what you thought she was doing."

"Kurt!" Rachel reprimanded.

"What are you two going on about?" Santana questioned. "What did the hobbit think I was doing?"

Rachel glared at Kurt, but he waved her off, "She thought she heard you having sex with some guy in here a week ago."

Santana snorted with laughter, "Say what now? Wait, is that why you've been avoiding me? I mean, we haven't had one of our little midnight rendezvous in the shower in ages."

Kurt's eyebrows lept up.

"I was coming to get some sheet music I left behind that I needed for glee rehearsal," Rachel began to explain in exasperation. "And I heard you in here, making…_sex_ noises."

"I was working out, you perv," Santana chuckled.

"There was a guy's voice," Rachel countered.

Santana reached under her bed and pulled out a box of dvd's, tossing the top one at Rachel, "He's one of the best workout coaches in the country."

"Oh," was all Rachel could say.

Mercedes doubled over in laughter on the bed.

"All this week, she has been bitching about how much of a whore her roommate is," Kurt informed.

Santana narrowed her eyes at Rachel.

"Sorry," she squeaked.

"Wait," Santana shook her head. "Why are you even here? And why are you blue?" she questioned, finally taking in the blue dye covering Rachel's pull over sweater and dark brown hair.

"I got slushied while walking to Art," Rachel replied.

"Again? Who did your enormous beak offend this time?"

"Brittany."

"Brittany?" Santana's eyebrows flew up.

"I was just standing there, minding my own business—"

"She was asking Brittany if she had lost her shirt, and if so, she could borrow one of Rachel's sweaters," Kurt interjected.

"And she just slushied me out of nowhere! She's such a bitch. She totally hates me for no reason."

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you; I mean, in order to hate you, she would actually have to spend time and energy thinking about you, and you really just aren't that important."

"No," Kurt shook his head. "Brittany's exact words after she slushied her were, 'I hate you'."

"I think it's because they know about her obsession with Finn Hudson," Mercedes noted. "He is Quinn's boyfriend, after all."

"I doubt Brittany hates Berry just because she's in love with Quinn's boyfriend."

"All of the cheerios do, they give me hell for it," Rachel nodded, before adding, "and I am not _obsessed_ with him."

"I don't see Brittany going along with something just because Quinn told her to," Santana replied as she stood up and crossed the room. She swiped a hand under Rachel's pillow and pulled out a framed picture of Finn to show to everyone. "And yes, you are obsessed."

"Oh, this is too good," Kurt's face lit up in delight as he took the picture.

"Give me that," Rachel snatched it from him, wiping any fingerprints off the glass with her sweater. "And what are you talking about, Santana? Of course Brittany would go along with something just because Quinn told her to. All of those cheerleaders do, and she's the most mindless of them all. The girl probably can't even tie her own shoelaces."

"At least she can see her feet, which is more than I can say for you and that giant schnoz blocking your view," Santana countered.

"Rachel, you should really get cleaned up. Mr. Ryerson only gave us fifteen minutes," Mercedes reminded.

"Oh, right," Rachel nodded, scanning through her closet before pulling out another sweater just as hideous as the one she was wearing and hurrying off to the bathroom.

"So wait, if Rachel was the one that got slushied, how come you two got out of class as well?" Santana asked of Mercedes and Kurt.

"It was a fashion emergency," Mercedes shrugged.

"Something Mr. Ryerson understands," Kurt nodded with a grin. "Speaking of, nice magazine collection."

Santana followed his eyes to her stack of Victoria Secrets, "What can I say, I like underwear. It doesn't hurt that I look damn good in them, too. Wanna see?"

She started to raise up her shirt, and Kurt's face turned a brilliant shade of red. She locked eyes with him, and he nodded his conceit of the subject.

"I know what you mean, girl," Mercedes agreed. "If you got it, flaunt it, and we definitely got it."

"That we do," Santana smirked, giving her a high five before returning back to her bed. "Now if you two don't mind, I wants to get my Sarah on."

Mercedes waved her on, and Santana turned up her speakers before collapsing back onto her pillow, ready to welcome the weekend in style.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So, I know this chapter is a little shorter than normal, but the next part is giving me trouble, logistics wise, so instead of waiting until I have it worked out to update, I'm going to go ahead and just add that to the next chapter instead.

* * *

.

Brown eyes scoured the cafeteria before settling on the only remaining empty table. With a relieved sigh, Santana winded her way through the maze of circular tables, making her way over to the far corner. She hated lunch. She hated it even more when she was forced to sit with other students while they discussed the latest drama in their teenage soap opera lives. It was the one meal that everyone ate at roughly the same time because of classes, so the cafeteria was packed, and there was never a table to spare.

Santana reached into her bag, pulling out her red headphones and placing them over her ears, hoping that people would adhere to the universal sign of not wanting to be bothered. However, she hadn't even put ketchup on her hamburger yet when a tray was set down two chairs over. She glanced up to find Mercedes smiling at her. Mercedes' mouth moved in greeting, and Santana turned her attention back to her burger, spreading the ketchup with a tater tot before putting the bun back on in satisfaction. She took a bite as another seat was taken. Kurt immediately started up a conversation with Mercedes. A blonde boy with a humongous mouth seated himself between Santana and Mercedes, causing Santana to tighten her grip on her hamburger protectively. An Asian couple sat beside Kurt, holding hands, and Santana pulled off her headphones in agitation, wincing as she was met with the noise of a room full of teenagers.

"What is going on here?" she demanded. "If this is some revenge of the nerds crap, then I am not here for that."

Mercedes laughed, "Everybody, this is Santana. She's Rachel's roommate. Santana, this is everybody."

Santana glared at her, demanding more.

"They're in the glee club with us," she explained.

"I don't care if they are in a sex club with you, what are they all doing at my table interrupting my burger time?"

"We needed a place to sit, and this was the only open table," the blonde boy next to her answered.

Santana gaped as he spoke, his mouth opening nearly large enough for her to fit her head inside. She found herself tilting towards him to test that theory.

"Those seats are taken," she finally responded when he closed his mouth.

"By who?"

"Whom."

"Who's Whom?"

Santana groaned loudly.

"I doubt these seats were taken," the Asian girl across from her stated surely. "You come in here every day and put on your headphones and ignore everyone."

Santana's lip curled dangerously, and the other girl gulped, "What is this? Memoirs of a Stalking Geisha? It doesn't matter if those seats were taken by air because that would still be more welcome company that you lot. So how about you shut your mouth about what you might or might not have seen before I endz you."

"Whoa, okay now," Kurt broke in. "No need to get violent. We promise we won't bother you, Santana, but we have nowhere else to go. So, can we sit here, just this once?"

Santana frowned, but nodded her assent at him before scooting over a chair so that she had an empty one on either side of her. Her headphones were about to be place back over her ears when a tray was set down next to her. She looked to find Rachel starting to sit.

"No," Santana said firmly, causing her to pause in mid-air.

"Huh?"

"No," Santana repeated. "I may be in a nice enough mood to let the rejects from the brat pack sit with me, but I will never be in a good enough mood to let you. Even if I had just received a one-way ticket out of this place, even if I had just woken up and realized I was transported back into a time where music actually meant something, even if I were basking in the embers of the most mind shattering orgasm ever, you still would not be allowed to sit with me."

Rachel's face turned bright red, "Santana, that is extremely crass and unnecessary. It is just lunch."

"No."

"But—"

"No, and if you keep pushing me, I will burn that signed picture of Patty Lapone that sits on your desk and force you to watch."

Rachel gasped, bringing a hand up to her chest, "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Fine," she huffed, moving to take the nearest available seat at the closest table.

Santana let the farthest corners of her lips twist up in a tiny smile as she replaced her headphones on her ears. _It's the small victories that matter most_, she thought to herself.

+++GW+++

Santana fought to keep her eyes awake as she rested her head on her fist with a deep yawn. It meant a few more crunches, but the hamburger and tots resting heavily in her stomach were well worth it. Now, though, with a full belly and the monotonous clicking on cell phone keypads around her, she was struggling to stay awake.

"Okay, so you guys ended last period with a lot of questions, and we're going to pick back up right where we left off. So, who wants to go first?" Mr. Schuester began, his voice lilted with excitement.

The students seated before him didn't even bother to lift their heads.

"Anyone? Mercedes? You seemed interested in the discussion on Friday, so how about it?"

"Mr. Schue, it's Monday," Mercedes reasoned, popping a tot into her mouth from the pile she had smuggled out of the cafeteria.

"Kurt?"

"What were we even talking about on Friday? That was practically a year ago," he sighed.

"The plague," Mr. Schuester reminded.

"Like boils and stuff? Gross."

Mr. Schuester sighed, rubbing his eyes as he tried to keep from becoming agitated, "What happened to your enthusiasm from last week?"

"I think you're confusing enthusiasm for boredom, Mr. Schue," Puck chuckled. "I mean, there's only so much sleeping a guy can do before he needs a change of scenery. Plus, I remember there was talk of sex. That always wakes a guy up, if you know what I mean."

"You were the only one talking about sex, Puck," Mr. Schuester snapped. "We were talking about the Renaissance."

"I thought we were talking about the Plague," Kurt said in thought.

"We were—the Plague happened _during_ the Renaissance," Mr. Schuester rolled his eyes. "Every major fashion designer since the sixties you can remember but not what we talked about in class a few days ago?"

Kurt stiffened, and Santana narrowed her eyes at the teacher before them as she, along with a good portion of the class, sat up in her seat. Even Puck straightened up next to her. A hint of defiance settled in the air, and Santana knew that the majority of her classmates were thinking the same thing that she was: _only they were allowed to pick on one of their own._

"Now which Renaissance was this?" Santana questioned. "The English or Italian?"

"Well, I believe I said that the Italian Renaissance was going on while the Plague settled over England," Mr. Schuester replied dubiously.

"And remind me, was that the rebirth of Greek or Latin literature?"

A couple students chuckled.

"Um, that would be Latin literature, Santana."

"And this plague, you said it was just in England?"

"Well, no, not exactly," Mr. Schuester rubbed the back of his neck. "It was all over Europe."

"What about Asia?"

"What about it?"

"I'm pretty sure that's where this rendition of the plague originated from."

"I'm pretty sure you're wrong," he smirked triumphantly.

Santana cleared her throat, "No, I'm pretty sure _you're_ wrong, Mr. Schuester. It started in China and most likely spread along the Silk Road."

A series of "Oo"s spread through the room.

"Detention, Santana."

"For what?" she jumped up from her chair. "For questioning you? For caring enough about my education and the education of those around me to want to make sure we are learning the correct information."

"If you don't sit down, I'll make it a week's worth," he threatened.

Santana glared at him as she sat back down.

A few voices protested, most notably, though, was Puck's, "That's bullshit, Mr. Schue."

"Detention, Puck," Mr. Schuester countered. "Now, would anyone else like to join them?"

Nobody replied, but the air had thickened even more so than before. In the back of her head, hidden behind her anger, Santana couldn't help but wonder if their protests and the heightened tension meant that her classmates were starting to consider her as one of their own.

"Okay, so, enough on the Italian Renaissance and the Plague. Let's move on to the English Renaissance," Mr. Schuester declared. "Now, the English Renaissance began in 1485 and continued until the early 17th Century…" his voice trailed off as he took in the class staring back at him defiantly, their hands resting passively on their desks. "Well? Shouldn't you be taking notes? This is going to be on your test."

Quinn raised her hand.

"Yes, Quinn?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Schue, but as a Cheerio, Coach Sylvester made me read the Student Handbook, as well as the complete rulebook of the High School Cheerleading Association, and The Art of War and various other titles, so I know for a fact that you can make us sit down, and you can make us be quiet, but you cannot make us take notes. Note taking is done at the student's discretion in order to prepare us for how it is done in college."

Mr. Schuester's eyes widened, "And are you speaking for the room?"

"Yes," she nodded.

Santana snorted. Of course, Quinn wasn't going along with this as a means of solidarity, but so she could flex her claws of control in a matter that would win her a few more minions.

"Brittany?" Mr. Schuester prompted.

"Yes?" the taller cheerleader acknowledged.

"You've taken notes every day in my class; are you going to stop now?"

Santana raised an eyebrow. Brittany took notes?

"The people have spoken, Mr. Schue. And I can't say I'm surprised, since you are being rather mean today," Brittany answered with a frown in her voice. "I thought teachers were supposed to encourage students' search for knowledge, not punish them for it."

Santana's jaw dropped, and several voices whistled out in agreement.

Mr. Schuester's face flamed bright red in anger, and Santana waited for Brittany's reception of detention, but it never came. Instead, Mr. Schuester turned to the rest of the class, "Pick up your pencils and start taking notes."

"Why? We can just look all this information up online, anyway," Quinn pointed out.

"What if the electricity goes out? Would you guys even be able to survive without your cell phones?"

"Thankfully, we live in a time where we'll never have to find out."

"Well, you are not going to be allowed to have them out in college, so you are not allowed to have them out here. Put them away and take out your pencils to take notes. You need to learn this."

Nobody moved.

"You keep saying that, Mr. Schue, but you've yet to tell us when we would actually need to know it besides for a test or another class," Mercedes pointed out.

"So you don't repeat the mistakes of our past."

"In other words, never," Kurt replied. "Besides, what mistakes do we need to learn from during the Renaissance? The Renaissance was all about literature and art and knowledge and amazing fashion, if I do say so myself," his last few words had a bite that Santana didn't know his delicate voice possessed.

"Is that what you think?"

The class nodded as a whole.

"I can't believe this. The Renaissance was about so much more than that. It was a time of oppression of extravagance of inequality. There are so many lessons you can learn from them."

Puck snored mockingly.

"That's it," Mr. Schuester slammed his hand down on his podium before he began to gather his things. "I've never had a group of students so unresponsive and arrogant. Well what happens when you don't have access to the internet? What happens when you find yourself governed by a dictator because you didn't heed the warnings of the past?"

A giggle spurted out of a student's mouth, and soon the entire class was consumed in a laughing fit.

Mr. Schuester left the room in a fury, slamming the door closed behind him.

"Class dismissed," Puck grinned with a wave of his hands.

The students quickly gathered up their things before their teacher came back and changed his mind. An excited murmur passed throughout the room as they discussed what had just occurred. Santana watched as Quinn gave a superior smile to a couple of girls who had walked up to her to thank her for speaking up.

"Well, go on and create a mutiny, why don't ya," Mercedes teased as she joined her.

"Hey, you and Kurt started it," Santana replied.

"I think this has been brewing for a while," Kurt said as he stood beside her. "Although, I agree with Mercedes. Your comments last week and today were definitely a catalyst."

"A great one, I might say," Mercedes nodded. "Now I have a whole hour to lie around and enjoy my tots."

"What's with the face?" Kurt questioned, nudging Santana with his elbow.

"I don't think this is going to end well," she answered hesitantly.

"It seems pretty well to me," Mercedes shrugged.

"That's because it hasn't ended yet," Santana frowned.

Santana had quickly ditched the Project Runway rejects with an excuse of a stomachache and made her way downstairs. She turned a corner and quickly jerked back when she saw Mr. Schuester exiting his office with a purple binder headed towards her. She found the nearest water fountain and hurried to drink before he walked past her. Santana counted to five once his back was to her and began to follow, walking as lightly as she could. When Mr. Schuester stopped at the front office, Santana turned and acted as if she was opening her locker. Once he was inside the office, Santana rushed over. She glanced through the glass on the door and noticed the secretary was out. Mr. Schuester passed through the next door leading to the principal's office, and Santana quickly entered the first door. She took in the glass wall separating her from the principal's office and immediately crouched down, crawling over.

"What are you doing in here?" Mr. Schuester's voice floated through the crack he had left in the doorway.

"I believe the proper question is what are _you_ doing here, William, seeing as this is my office," a voice that Santana recognized as belonging to the much feared cheerleading coach, Sue Sylvester, countered.

Santana dug through her booksack for her makeup compact. She took it out and angled the mirror just so, so that when she placed it on the ledge of the glass partition, she could see the other room's inhabitants without making her own self visible.

"Screw you, Nancy Drew, I'm Veronica Mars-ing this shit," she whispered to herself, watching as Mr. Schuester faltered under Coach Sylvester's reply from where she sat behind the principal's desk.

"_Your_ office?" Mr. Schuester replied. "Where is Principal Figgins?"

"On sabbatical. He had to go back to India to help take care of his mother. She had a stroke or heart attack or something else that I couldn't care enough about to remember," Coach Sylvester waved. "And, as it says in my contract, in the event that the principal cannot be here, I take over his title until he returns."

"You cannot be serious."

"You want to take a look?" Coach Sylvester opened a drawer and pulled out a book. "Here, have a look. I keep a leather bound copy of my contract with me at all times just for times like these so I can see that idiotic look on your face and know that I once again have ruined your day, or in this case, hopefully, your year. So…what is that I can do for you, William?"

Mr. Schuester sighed and sat down in one of the chairs lining the wall of the room, "I've lost control of my class. My students just don't care about history. They don't pay attention in class, they never do their homework, and they're always absorbed in their phones and ipods. They're all like that, too, from my freshman classes to my seniors. If I don't do something drastic, these kids are going to get to college, not knowing Queen Elizabeth from Queen Victoria, and they aren't going to pass freshmen history. And if they fail out, then it is going to reflect poorly on us, and our financial backers are going to pull their support."

"So, what do you propose?" Coach Sylvester asked, her fingers laced beneath her chin.

"I've been thinking about this for a while," Mr. Schuester stood and placed the purple binder in his hands on the desk.

Coach Sylvester slipped on her glasses and began to flip through it.

"I just hoped it would never get this bad. I think, though, if we can instill in them a respect for history, then they will take the class more seriously."

Coach Sylvester nodded as she closed the folder, slipping her glasses off, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," she repeated. "However much it pains me to say it, I agree with you, William. Aside from physical education, I view history as the most important subject in school. We have a lot to learn from those who came before us; it is why I order my Cheerios to read such works as The Wealth of Nations, The Communist Manifesto, The Republic, and "Common Sense". I cannot expect them to win if they do not know how their predecessors won…and lost. And do not get me started on their dependence on technology. The majority of these kids think a library is something you add music to on your computer."

"So, you are agreeing to go along with it?"

Coach Sylvester nodded, "We will have to get their parents' permission, of course, but yes, I am going along with it. I just have one condition…"

"Of course you do," Mr. Schuester frowned as Coach Sylvester replaced her glasses and flipped through the purple binder once more before settling on a page and placing a finger firmly upon it.

"Seniors?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want a Cheerio on top."

Mr. Schuester's jaw tensed before nodding, "Deal."

"Deal," Coach Sylvester smirked, holding out her hand to shake on it.

Santana snatched her compact and shoved it back in her booksack as she hurried from the room before Mr. Schuester exited. She didn't stop until she made it all the way back up to the second floor where she paused to try and catch her head. What had Coach Sylvester just agreed to let Mr. Schuester do? How bad must it be to have to have parental permission? And what did Coach Sylvester mean by wanting a Cheerio on top?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So, it took me even longer to work this out that i thought, no thanks to the fact that i caught that crazy new virus that's going around. seriously, stay far away from that mess as you can. it was horrible. so, between being in and out of the hospital with that and my laptop going through one of its manic episodes, i hadn't really had much time to write. but anyways, i'm nearly healthy again, my laptop is exorcised, and the update is good to go. for those of y'all wondering about 'GleeWarts', i'm going to be setting to work on the next chapter for that first thing tomorrow. so, hopefully that one doesn't have any set backs. anyways, without further ado, here is the update. i hope y'all enjoy.

p.s. thanks as always for the reviews, it is always nice to hear what people think of the story. it helps me to know whether or not i'm on the right track.

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* * *

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Santana sat on her bed, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. She didn't remember the entirety of her Spanish class, nor the walk to her dorm room after. Her mind was too busy struggling to put the pieces together, yet she was no closer to figuring out what Mr. Schuester and Coach Sylverster were talking about than she was a couple hours ago. She did know what she had to do, though, in order to learn what was going on: get her hands on that purple binder.

The door to the room opened, and Santana sat up, watching Rachel walk in by herself.

"Where's your gay groupies?" Santana questioned.

"Why, hello, Santana. How was your day today? Mines was lovely except for the fact that I had to eat lunch without any of my friends' company."

"Mercedes and Kurt, where are they?"

"Mercedes isn't gay," Rachel said in confusion as she placed her book bag next to her small desk.

"Oh please, there is a gay boy inside of her just dying to get out. In fact, from the looks of her, there are several."

"Santana," Rachel admonished.

"I'm just saying…" she shrugged.

"They should be here any moment. We need to start looking for songs for glee this week. The theme is—"

"I don't care."

Rachel's shoulders fell despondently, and she turned to start up her laptop, "Why do you want to know their whereabouts, anyway?"

"I need their help with something."

"I can help," Rachel turned back excitedly.

"If I ever need advice on how to annoy someone into insanity, you'll be the first person I go to."

The door to the room was pushed further open and in walked Mercedes, followed by Kurt who closed the door behind them.

"Well looky here," Kurt grinned at Santana. "If it isn't the rebel rouser, herself."

Santana smirked in reply, taking them in as they lounged across Rachel's bed. She wasn't sure what hurt her eyes more, Mercedes' bright ass yellow pants or Kurt's military jacket with a thousand clasps reflecting every light source within ten acres.

"Class let out twenty minutes ago," Santana found herself saying in amusement. "How did you two have time to change out of your uniforms and get back here already?"

"Years of practice," Mercedes smiled smugly.

"Why is Santana a rebel rouser?" Rachel broke in.

Santana turned to her with a quick glare.

Rachel's face turned a deep shade of red, "In case you haven't noticed, Santana, this is my room too, and these are _my_ friends, so I can converse them as freely as I wish."

Santana gave a short snort, "Well look who finally decided to grow a pair."

Rachel's tensed shoulders slowly started to drop as Kurt and Mercedes giggled and filled her in on the happenings of their history class over the past week.

"So _that's_ why Mr. Schuester shut his door in my face when I asked if we could cover "Memories" from the record breaking musical, "Cats", for sectionals…"

"No," Kurt shook his head firmly. "This has nothing to do with Mr. Schue's for once wise decision in song selections."

Rachel folded her arms crossly.

"More importantly than all that—" Santana redirected, talking louder when Rachel opened her mouth to argue the levels of importance, "is what happened after class. I followed Mr. Schue to his office—"

"I thought you were sick," Mercedes interjected.

"No, I just didn't trust you two to keep your mouths shut long enough to be stealthy. Anyways, he came back out with this purple binder and went to the principal's office."

She went on to tell them about the new acting principal and the conversation that she had overheard. By the time she was finished, the other three inhabitants of the room were seated on Rachel's bed and staring at her with open mouths.

"So what do you think they were talking about?" Mercedes wondered.

"I have no idea," Santana answered. "But I know a way we can find out: we need to get our hands on that binder."

"Why not just wait until they announce it themselves?" Rachel asked.

"Who knows how long its going to take for them to get parental permission for everyone? Aren't you the least big curious about what they are going to make us do?"

"Are you suggesting that we steal the binder?" Mercedes questioned. "Because I like that suggestion."

"Except that Mr. Schue now keeps everything in his office under lock and key since a group of well meaning students stole all the "lite fm" sheet music from his filing cabinet," Kurt reminded.

"True. What if we enlist Artie's help? This seems right up his alley."

"Who's Artie?" Santana asked.

"He's in Glee Club with us," Kurt supplied. "He's crazy smart and really good with gadgets and stuff."

"I don't think I've ever met him," Santana shook her head.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, he's the paralyzed kind in the wheel chair," Rachel rolled her eyes. "Enough with the political correctness."

"I wasn't being P.C.; I was simply choosing to judge him by who he is instead of what he is," Kurt snapped, and it was clear that there was so much more behind his words than a handicapped friend.

"Artie should be able to make duplicates of Mr. Schue's keys," Mercedes nodded, breaking through the tension.

"And you think he'd be willing to help?" Santana asked.

"Yeah, he's pretty cool."

"And if all else fails, Mercedes will just bribe him with a duet," Kurt added, trying to relax.

"Our voices will make sweet R&B babies together."

That comment got Kurt to crack a smile.

"I think you all are overlooking a major blip in your plan," Rachel pointed out hesitantly. "It all rests on the idea that Mr. Schuester is in possession of the binder, but what if he left it with Coach Sylvester?"

Santana visibly deflated as she realized that Rachel was right. They would be risking suspension, at the very least, and it all could be for naught. Maybe they should just wait.

+++gw+++

Come Wednesday afternoon, Santana found herself standing in the hallway, staring at the white piece of paper that was taped to the door of the history classroom that read:

**All History classes today have been cancelled.**

**Enjoy the free time while you have it.**

Below that lay that day's date. Santana's eyes scanned back over the second line. What did he mean by 'while you have it'?

As more of her classmates gathered around to read the sign, Santana backed up meeting up with Kurt and Mercedes at the edge of the small crowd. Mercedes opened her mouth to question what the sign said when another voice broke in.

"What is going on?" Quinn questioned the crowd as she and Brittany, flanked by two other Cheerios walked up.

"Class is cancelled," Puck grinned while turning away from the door.

"Awesome," Quinn smiled broadly at him.

"Are we supposed to read the next chapter?" Brittany asked worriedly.

"Who cares?" Puck chuckled as he threw his arms around both of their shoulders. "Let's cut last period and head off campus."

Brittany's eyes lit up, "Can we go to the pet store?"

"Always," he laughed, squeezing her shoulder as the three of them walked away the two anonymous Cheerios trailing them faithfully.

"Is anyone else thinking the chance of being wrong might be worth it?" Mercedes asked.

"How long would it take Artie to get the key copies?" Santana questioned, eyeing the trailing forms in red.

"He said he would need two days," Kurt replied. "So, we should get them on Friday."

"Friday it is," Santana nodded.

.

* * *

.

Santana didn't bother to look up when a lunch tray was set next to her own. She was becoming accustomed to the fact that Mercedes and Kurt insisted on sitting with her as well as bringing their Dork Club friends with them. Plus, it was the end of the week, and she just couldn't find it in herself to care about much. She gave an impassive nod of her head and turned her music up louder. Another tray on the table and a nudge to her side and Santana looked up to find Kurt and Mercedes staring at her. Kurt motioned for her to take off her headphones and she did so reluctantly.

"What do you think is going on?" Mercedes asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you noticed? Ever since yesterday, more and more people have been ignoring us," Kurt answered.

"People always ignore me because I ignore them," Santana replied. "So, no, I haven't noticed. Maybe they're becoming environmental and instead of wasting those paper cups every time they slushy one of you, they are now just going to ignore you."

"No, that's not it. Some in Glee Club are ignoring us, and some non Glee Clubbers are being ignored, including football players and cheerleaders. Take a look around."

Santana turned in her chair to find the majority of the cafeteria seated with their eyes trained at their trays, shaking their head when certain students, ones who normally would be considered their friend, asked to join them. A voice shouted out, and Santana watched as Puck got into a scuffle with Finn before finally being pulled away by Quinn.

"What the hell is going on?" Santana wondered as Puck and Quinn walked towards their table.

"It's the apocalypse," Kurt's eyes widened at their approach. "It has to be."

"I'm not sitting with them," Quinn stated harshly.

"Well, then, you can eat standing up because we have nowhere else to sit," Puck countered as he placed his tray on the table, looking to Santana. "That is, unless you guys are ignoring us too?"

Santana shook her, "No more so than normal."

He chuckled at her as he took a seat, "Perfect."

The male Asian, whom Santana had learned was named Mike and was one of the two rare crossovers of Glee Club member and football player, sat next to Puck, giving him a high-five.

"Where's the ol' ball and chain?" Puck questioned him.

"Ignoring me," he replied, pointing to where she sat with other Glee Club members across the cafeteria.

"You don't seem too upset by that, Boy Chang," Santana pointed out.

"Well, whatever's going on, I'm going to find out last period when I have history, right?"

The rest of the table looked at him blankly.

"The only people not ignoring me are those who haven't had history yet yesterday or today," he explained. "So, I'm assuming we will be clued in during our history classes later."

"Thank Yahweh, we have an Asian on our side," Puck clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Santana, Mercedes, and Kurt gawked at him.

"Well, it's not like any of you figured it out," Mike laughed at his friend's antics.

"Hey, everybody, change of scenery?" a light voice asked, and Santana's eyes widened as Brittany sat down on the other side of Puck, taking the white earbuds from her ears. "What's up with Quinn?" she asked him, glancing over her shoulder at the blonde girl that had thrown her tray and was now leaning against the wall not far from them.

"Pride," Puck rolled his eyes.

Brittany nodded, addressing the table, "So how is everyone's day going?"

It was her turn to be gawked at.

"What?"

"You're talking to us?" Kurt asked.

"Haven't you noticed anything weird going on?" Mercedes wondered.

"Weird how?" she asked, taking a bite of spaghetti.

"People ignoring you."

"I haven't really been paying attention."

"I want your life," Santana blurted out.

Brittany smiled at her sweetly, a hint of sadness dancing along the edges, "It's not as great as it seems."

Santana swallowed hard as clear blue eyes continued to hold her own. She found herself wanting to know what exactly was hiding in the corners of her smile. A shy smile graced her own lips in reply.

"Well, I guess we're going to find out what's going on soon," Kurt nodded.

"Does that mean that Plan: Pickpocket a Purple Binder from a Proper Pansy is a no go?" Mercedes whispered as she leaned closer to Santana.

She finally broke her gaze with the tall girl seated across from her and nodded, "Looks like it. It's a shame too, I was proud of the titular consonance."

+++gw+++

Santana took in her fellow students from where she sat in the back of the room. It was two minutes until class started and everyone was seated, waiting anxiously, all electronic devices put away. She couldn't remember any other example of this happening. They all must have been made aware that something big was going to happen in class that day.

When the bell rang signaling the beginning of class, they all sat up a bit straighter. Soon Mr. Schuester walked through the door, placing a purple binder onto his desk. It took all Santana had not to try and catch Mercedes and Kurt's gazes. Mr. Schuester finally took in the students before him with a satisfied smirk.

"Well, there are two things I can easily deduce from this sight greeting me: 1. Your peers have kept their promise and held their tongues. 2. You all have enough deduction and reasoning skills to come to realize that this class is the root of their behavior. Now," he took a breath to collect his thoughts before continuing, "recently, it has become more and more obvious to myself, as well as the rest of the faculty as I've found out, that this year's student body has become so obsessed with the here and now that you refuse to even glance at the past. Your English teacher told me that the other day when he asked one of his senior British Lit classes to name authors from the Medieval Period, particularly in the Dark Ages, the only answer he received was 'J.K. Rowling'."

Santana could see Kurt's shoulders falling, and she cracked a smile. It was their shared English class to which Mr. Schuester was referring. Kurt had answered surely, and the class had been quick to nod their affirmation. The teacher in turn questioned, desperation pulling his words along, whether or not he were joking, and Kurt had replied that he thought the Medieval Period dealt with witches, to which Brittany added that Voldemort's mark had, in fact, been "dark". When pressed about if they knew any works old than the Harry Potter series, the blonde boy with the enormous mouth from Glee Club—and football, as Santana had found out—that was in the class with them answered "The Hobbit", and the teacher fell back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"So, I have come up with a plan to counteract this repulsion to history you guys harbor that can end up seriously jeopardizing your future. The idea behind it is to instill in you a respect for the past and for the people that came before you, in the hopes that you will take the lessons they have to offer more seriously." His eyes passed over the room as the students stared back in earnest curiosity. "I have given this presentation a number of times over the past couple of days, and as such, I know the initial questions and protests you will all immediately have, so let's get those answers out the way before we begin so that there will be less interrupting and more listening. First, this project will count as fifty percent of your final grade in this course, so yes, you have to participate, and no you cannot half-ass it because, and secondly, I have the full support of the administration as well as the other teachers. You may think you can get away with it because I am not around, but the rest of the faculty have agreed to keep an eye out on you guys as well. And third, yes, we do have each and every one of your parents' written permission to do this. It is funny how fast parents respond when sent an email detailing a project that weighs so heavily upon their child's grade as well as the assurance that if their child does commit one hundred percent to this, then there will be a letter of recommendation in their file for the college of their choice not just from me but from the acting principal as well."

The class's stare turned from curiosity to confusion.

"Now, I realize those answers may not make very much sense to you yet, but they will. You see, what we are doing is taking the student body of William McKinley Prepatory Academy and transforming it into and English court straight out of the Renaissance."

"Like with a judge?" one of the minion cheerleaders at the front of the room questioned. Quinn turned around and glared at her.

"I think she forgot to ask permission to speak," Santana muttered, making Puck snort back a laugh.

"And that question is one of the very reasons why we are doing this," Mr. Schuester replied with a groan. "No, not a like with a judge, like with a king and queen and ladies in waiting and guards and merchants. An English society. Every single student has their own identity from king all the way to peasant. These identities have been handpicked for each and every one of you, and no, there is no trading allowed. You will find out your positions today and will have all weekend to research what role a person of your status would have played in English society during the time of the Renaissance. Monday morning, there will be an assembly with all of the students where the project will officially kick off. After that, you will no longer be a football player or a cheerleader or a Glee Club member or an A/V nerd. You will be a king or a duke or a soldier or a blacksmith. You will know each other by these titles. You will hang out in groups according to these titles. This is where the help of my fellow faculty comes in. Let's say you are a merchant and your bff is a lord, if they see the two of you just hanging out for any reason other than business, then I will be notified, and points will be deducted from your grade."

"So now you are picking our friends?" Mercedes protested. "You can't do that."

"No," he shook his head. "Society's rules are picking your friends. That is how things were back then, and it is one of the many things I think you guys can learn from. And yes I can, because as I have already stated, I have permission. So yes, who you now sit with during lunch, during class, after class, it will all be determined by this project. And not just who you sit with, but how you sit. Do you think the merchants were allowed to sit next to royalty? Do you think even a lord was allowed to speak to the king without permission first being needed from his guard? These things all will be taken into consideration. And yes, I know, this will take a lot of getting used to, and you will be given a grace period to adjust, but after that, each misstep, each refusal to acknowledge custom will result in a deduction of points from your grade. By the same merit, each time you are witnessed to be giving this project one hundred percent of your effort, points will be added to your grade."

Santana raised her hand slowly, her mind still trying to work its way around this change being thrust upon them, "How far is this supposed to go?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said after class. Does that mean we have to play this game twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?"

"Good question," Mr. Schuester nodded. "As long as you are on campus, you will play by these rules. And just how far will this go? Well, you will all be receiving new room assignments. Does that begin to answer your question?"

"Yes!" Santana cheered, doing a fist pump. Her brain caught up with her excitement over ditching the musical Hobbit, though, "Wait…we will have new room assignments based on this?"

"Well, yes, the Queen can't be ruling with a peasant, nor can they be expected to both have the same luxuries."

"Luxuries?" Quinn broke in. "Do you mean that the Cheerios are no longer guaranteed a suite?"

Santana rolled her eyes. The top athletes and cheerleaders were given what was known by everyone as a suite to live in. The rooms were only a tiny bit larger than the regular ones, but they came with the added luxury of non communal showers. Every two rooms were connected by their own private bathroom and shower. It was definitely seen by the other students as a luxury.

"That is exactly what I am saying," Mr. Schuester smiled.

"Coach Sylvester will never agree to this."

"Have you not been listening? I already said that she has," his reply sent a series of 'Ooo's' around the room.

Quinn visibly bristled, but held her tongue.

Santana had a feeling she knew why. Quinn had to have realized that if Coach Sylvester agreed to this, then there must be something in it for her as well, and Santana was now understanding what that something was.

_'I want a Cheerio on top.'  
_

Quinn was going to be Queen.

Santana found herself gagging. Of fucking course.

"Speaking of luxuries, let's talk about technology, shall we?"

The entire room of students froze.

"After this weekend, the wireless internet running freely throughout campus will be shut off. The only place with internet access will be the library, so if you need to look up something online for homework, you will have to do it there."

"You can't do that," Kurt protested.

"The internet is not a right," Mr. Schuester countered. "We don't even have to provide it for you at all, a fact which none of you seem to realize. Next, cell phones. If I or any other faculty member catches sight of one, we have the full authority to confiscate it. If you want it back, your parents have to come sign it out."

"You can't do this," another voice protested. "Our parents would never allow this. I'm going to transfer."

"Have you not been listening? Your parents are in full support of this. The majority of them think it is a great idea and a great way to get you guys less dependent technology, if nothing else."

"Without emails or texts, how are we supposed to communicate?"

"Letter writing is a lost art form, one which was very much alive during the English Renaissance."

"And what if we need to call our parents?" the minion cheerleader asked.

"There is a corded telephone in each and every dorm room. Have none of you noticed them?"

"My parents pay a cell phone bill every month. They aren't going to be happy to find out I can't even use it."

"Funny you should mention that, because I've had a good few replies from parents stating that it meant one less bill they had to pay."

"You're kidding."

"No."

"So you made our parents cancel our cell phones?"

"No, and not all of them are going that route, since money is not an option for everyone here—this is a private school, after all. I just said that some of them found this particular part of the project as a small blessing."

"But—"

"Oh, would you shut it, Stacy?" Quinn snapped, turning back to glare at her. "It's a cell phone, get over it. This project is part of your grade, so unless you want to be kicked off the Cheerios, you had better start embracing it."

Santana couldn't help the sneer that crossed her face. Queen Quinn was already reveling in her new sense of power.

"Thank you, Quinn," Mr. Schuester nodded at her. "Now, back onto the subject of how far things will go. The King and Queen ruled of English society, and will do so with the student body as well. They have the right to make rules and change their minds a minute later. If they want to ban uniforms? Then done, no more uniforms."

A murmur of life passed through the room that hadn't been there since the discussion had drifted towards technology.

"They want to make a decree where there are tater tots for lunch every day? Then so be it."

"Now we're talking," Mercedes grinned.

"However, they may not enact any rule that goes against the time in which this project is set. And by that, I mean, they cannot go back on the rule against technology."

Santana smirked as Quinn visibly deflated. Well, looked like Queen Quinn's first royal decree would be null and void.

"And of course, they cannot physically harm other students and so on, but come on, that's common sense."

_Really? _Santana thought to herself. _Because it did not seem like such common sense when she was shoved into a wall the week before._

"So, without further ado, would you all like to know where exactly you will be placed in English society?"

A murmur of excitement passed through the room.

"Let's begin," he grinned, opening the purple binder and taking one of the two remaining stacks of white envelopes that lay inside. He walked to the back of the room and passed out the envelopes along the back row of tables. "Do not open them until I say."

Santana stared down at the square, white envelope lying on the table before her, her first and last name written in black marker in Mr. Schuester's semi-messy handwriting.

"We will start on one end and make our way across. Say your position out loud for the class to here. A master list of every student and their position will be posted throughout the school so that everybody may know where everyone else stands, as is necessary for this to work."

The first boy at the table to her left announced that he was now a merchant of fish.

"Fish?" he questioned.

"People need to eat, and England is on an island," Mr. Schuester replied.

Next to him, a red head known as Stoner Brett opened his card and read, "Medicinal Healer...nice."

The class giggled. It seemed like Mr. Schuester had at least put some thought into where he placed people.

Puck was next. He opened his envelope, and pulled out the card inside. "Lord Chamberlain…what's that?"

"It means you wipe the King's ass after he uses the bathroom," Santana grinned.

"What?!"

"No, no," Mr. Schuester broke in. "Well, at one point in time, yes, but no. In the era we are focusing on, the Lord Chamberlain practically ran the castle, and more importantly, was perhaps the King's closest confidant. He had to be, as it was also his job to decide who to let in to see the King in his private quarters and who to turn away. That is your job, Puck. If anyone wants to talk to the King, then they have to go through you first."

"And who is the King?"

"Well, he was named yesterday, in fact, so I guess it is safe to tell you. The King will be Finn Hudson."

"Awesome," Puck smiled.

"Gross," Santana frowned.

"You're up," Mr. Schuester all but smirked at her.

Santana's stomach turned nervously from the look in his eye. She opened the envelope and pulled out the white card, her eyes taking in the word typed across it. She felt a growl starting from deep within her throat. "Court Jester…are you fucking kidding me?"

The class erupted into laughter.

Mr. Schuester motioned to the students around him, "Exactly."

Santana's fists clenched as he moved to the table to her right. She didn't hear the next few titles, her eyes seeing red every time she took in Mr. Schuester's wiry frame and the way he stood smugly as he laid titles upon each of his students based upon his own observations and amusement. She was just reminding herself to breathe when Mercedes's turn came about. She pulled the card out of her envelope, dark eyes immediately narrowing.

"Peasant."

The class as a whole swallowed hard.

"I know it is not the most ideal title," Mr. Schuester replied. "But you guys need to understand that there will be a lot more peasants than lords. That's just how things were."

Mercedes crumpled the card into a ball in her fist, glaring at the air in front of her. Mr. Schuester moved on. More people were named peasants or merchants or priests. When it was Kurt's turn, his hands shook as he opened the envelope. He slid the card out, a disbelieving smile forming on his face as he took in his title.

"Royal designer."

_Fitting,_ Santana allowed herself to think. But then again, what did that mean of Mercedes' title?

More people. More peasants. A mid-wife. A farmer. A soldier. Mr. Schuester got to the middle table on the second row and Santana rolled her eyes.

_Let me guess…Lady in Waiting and…Lady in Waiting._

The first Cheerio, the minion with a cellular addiction, opened her card and read happily, "Lady in Waiting."

"Well there's a real shocker," Santana announced.

"Hey," the Cheerio turned around snottily. "I am now a member of the royal entourage. You can't talk to me that way."

"Actually," Mr. Schuester cut in. "She can. Santana's the Royal Jester. She is the one person in all of the kingdom who can say anything she wants about anybody, including the King and Queen themselves, and not get into any trouble. It is her job to poke fun."

Santana smirked at the Cheerio in reply. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all.

The second Cheerio opened her envelope excitedly, nearly tearing the card as she ripped it out, but then she froze, not saying a word. The newly appointed Lady in Waiting beside her leaned over to look at the card, her eyes going wide before she covered her mouth to try and hide the laugh that pushed forth.

"Well?" Mr. Schuester prompted.

"Peasant," the girl read in disbelief.

A collective gasp filled the room.

"Did not see that coming," Santana shook her head.

"I told you guys," Mr. Schuester reminded. "It is a whole new hierarchy now."

The peasant girl hung her head as the Lady in Waiting scooted her chair away from her.

Mr. Schuester finished the row and moved on to the front of the class. He did the left table, skipped the middle—which nobody was really surprised by. It seemed they had all at some point come to the same conclusion that Santana and Quinn had earlier—and went to the right table. Finally, when the rest of the class had revealed their titles, Mr. Schuester stood in front of Quinn and Brittany's table, smiling down at them.

"Quinn," Mr. Schuester nodded.

Quinn carefully opened her envelope, sliding out the white card with delicate hands. Her eyes scanned the title, but her lips did not move.

"Well?"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Quinn replied, looking up at him.

Another gasp filled the room as everyone realized something entirely different: Quinn was not the Queen.

"Lady of the Bedchamber? This has to be a joke right?"

"A Lady of the Bedchamber is a type of Lady in Waiting and is around the Queen 24/7. In public, you sort of act as the Lord Chamberlain when he is busy with the King, buffering the Queen from unwanted company. In private, you are the Queen's confidant and closest friend."

"If I'm not the Queen, then who is? It has to be a Cheerio, because that is the only way Coach Sylvester would go along with this. Since you haven't announced it yet, that means she hasn't been named yet. Which Cheerios are in your last class? Shelley? That brunette bimbo? How can you name her Queen over me?"

If Santana had been paying attention to Quinn, she would have definitely started to wonder if the head Cheerio was finally starting to crack, but instead she was distracted by the tall blonde sitting to Quinn's right who, in all the commotion, had quietly opened her own envelope and was now curiously looking down at the card that held her title.

"Brittany?" Mr. Schuester cut Quinn's rant off. "Would you like to read your title for the class?"

"Queen," she read simply.

"Well I'll be damned," Santana grinned. "Looks like Mr. Schue done went and grew a pair."

Mr. Schuester just smiled in satisfaction as Brittany's title sunk in on the rest of the class. Santana could see it in his eyes. She could see it in the slight smirk he gave in Quinn's direction. His triumph was written all over his face.

He would bend to Coach Sylvester demanding a part in his project that he had been working on for so long now, but no way would he break to her exact wishes. Coach Sylvester had told him to name a Cheerio as Queen, but she never specified which one.

A split second of silence, before all hell broke loose.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So, I know I said I'd update GleeWarts next, and I tried, but my mind refused to switch off of this one. What can you do? Lol. Anyway, thanks for the comments. They definitely help when I'm not in the mood to write. To the guest who asked 'Why Brittany?', you should find your answer in this update. Hope y'all enjoy!**

* * *

.

"Keg parties and topless Tuesdays!" Puck raised his fists in the air excitedly, causing several students to cheer.

"This has got to be some kind of joke," Quinn demanded, standing up from her seat.

"We are all going to die," Dottie, a small Asian girl with black rimmed glasses shook her head in defeat.

Shouts, a mixture of anger and excitement, escalated in volume as student struggled to talk over student. Mr. Schuester waved his arms in an attempt to get everyone to return to their seats and quiet down but to no avail. The door to the room rattled against its hinges as it was thrown open, and Coach Sylvester stormed into the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" Coach Sylvester demanded as she marched up to Mr. Schuester and all but growled in his face.

The entirety of the class fell silent.

"How did you find out about it already?" Mr. Schuester questioned.

The Cheerio in the second row—the now peasant—waved her cell phone in the air with satisfaction.

"We had a deal," Coach Sylvester reminded heatedly.

"And I followed that deal," Mr. Schuester nodded. "I named a senior Cheerio as Queen…Brittany."

"You know that is not what I meant."

"Oops…" he grinned smugly.

"I withdraw my consent for this project."

"Unfortunately, you can't do that. It says so in the form that you signed. I have a copy right here if you want to take a look," Mr. Schuester moved for the purple binder on his desk. "I had my lawyer friend help me write it up."

"Since when do you have a lawyer friend? Last I checked, you only had two friends…your left and right hands."

"My," he gave a self-conscious cough, "divorce lawyer."

"I'm warning you William, you do not want to cross me like this."

"Consider this payback for nearly causing me my job with that false scandal you spread about me last year."

"False? I have yet to see proof that you aren't doping up that annoying song bird of yours. Nobody has the ability to be that oral all the time."

"Wanky," Santana smiled, earning a high-five from Puck.

"Why would I be making my lead singer snort crack when that would ruin her vocal chords, Sue?!"

"Pretty sure you _smoke_ crack and snort cocaine," Santana noted thoughtfully, causing a break in the tension weighing down the room, at least amongst the students.

"Thank you, Santana, but now is not the time for one of your corrections," Mr. Schuester replied at her through the side of his mouth.

Santana shrugged, looking down at the card in front of her as Mr. Schuester went back to his argument with Coach Sylvester. She picked the card up, running her fingers along the edges before flipping the card over. There was more information on the back.

**2; Single; 0 children; Vagabond traveling through London. Got caught trying to steal food by the Captain of the Royal Guard which led to a scuffle where she nearly stabbed him with his own knife. Was going to be thrown in jail when the Captain recognized her talent at foolery. Brought to Court where she was offered a job as Royal Jester instead of life in prison.**

"He must have really spent a lot of time thinking about this," Santana said softly. "Perhaps he should have spent some of that time working on his lectures and we would never have gotten in this situation to begin with."

"Huh?" Puck questioned, leaning over to see her card before turning over his own. "2; Single; 0 children; Second born son of a Duke. Childhood friend of then Prince Finn. Named Lord Chamberlain by King Finn, himself," he read. "Nice."

Santana looked up to find Coach Sylvester storming out of the room with Quinn close on her heels, head hanging and fists clenched. Mr. Schuester was wearing that smug smile again. She raised her hand tentatively.

"Santana?" Mr. Schuester appeared taken back by her formality. "Yes? Do you have a question?"

"On the back of the cards there's more information about our roles," she pointed out carefully.

"Yes there is," he nodded, and the rest of the class's cards were turned over in a flurry of white.

"Some people are going to have spouses? And kids? Is that going to be a part of the new living arrangements?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. Some people will have designated spouses within the student body. Some will even have children, though those will be imaginary. As for the living arrangements—"

"Get some," Puck nodded.

Santana smiled.

"Couples will live next door to each other or directly across the hall," he explained. "All rooms will be inhabited by students of the same sex only. That goes for suites as well."

"Wait," the Minion in Waiting in the second row waved her hand. "I'm married to Samuel Evans? Isn't that that boy on the football team that does stupid impressions? He has, like, fish lips."

"So, wait, when he goes down on you, would that be considered scissoring?" Santana wondered.

The class erupted in laughter, and the Cheerio's face turned bright red. Puck applauded.

"Now Santana," Mr. Schuester began to admonish.

"What? You know they totally had a dirty sense of humor back during the Renaissance. Didn't King Henry have Syphilis?"

"Well, that has never been proven…"

"But the simple fact that it's a valid suggestion means he must have gotten around quite a bit, so they definitely weren't prudes. I mean, it's the Renaissance, not the Victorian Age."

Mr. Schuester opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. He sighed, "Well, the project has yet to officially begin, so try to keep your mind out of the gutter until Monday, okay?"

"Fair enough," Santana nodded.

"Hold up," Mercedes spoke up for the first time since her title was announced. "My husband died in prison, and I have three kids and no substantial job?"

"A common fate for peasants, I'm afraid," Mr. Schuester answered.

"One that has nothing to do with the color of my skin?" Mercedes challenged.

"I considered many things about each and every student when determining where to place them, but color was not one of them. This isn't about race. One of the few things that I admire about your generation is your complete lack of recognition of different races when it comes to social situations: friends, relationships. Why would I want to mess with that? Plus, there was very little representation of different races in and around Court—certainly nowhere near the levels at this school—so to divide you by race would be impractical."

"So the fact that the white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes is named Queen and the black girl is named peasant with three kids and a dead baby daddy who was locked up is just a coincidence?"

Santana took in the look of confusion on Brittany's countenance as she witnessed the conversation. Fair eyebrows were drawn close together, and blue eyes held a look of…hurt? Santana scrambled to try and locate the source of that emotion. Brittany was just named Queen. What did she have to be hurt about? Surely she wasn't upset by the anger of a lowly Glee Club member. After all, this was the same girl that pushed a handicapped kid down the stairs. Santana shook her head. She must have misread her.

More questions were raised, and by the time the bell rang signaling the end of class, the nervous excitement had once again settle over them. Or at least, most of them. The students quickly gathered up their belongings and pushed through the doorway out into the hall.

"Remember, you cannot talk about the project until after last period so that you won't spoil it for my final class!" Mr. Schuester called after them as he hurried out of the room himself.

Santana took her time putting her envelope and the card that had been placed back inside of it into her book sack. She kept an eye on Brittany who was moving slowly as well, taking note that they were the final two left in the room. She walked up the aisle and past her table, pausing when a soft voice reached her ear.

"You're friends with Mercedes, right?"

Santana cautiously turned back to face Brittany who was still sitting in her chair, one hand carelessly holding a strap of her book bag that was resting on the floor. Santana tightened her hands around her own straps draping her shoulders, "Depends on how you define friend, I think."

"You see each other outside of class," the smallness of her voice was mirrored in the way she sat slouched, her shoulders rounded and head down as she looked up at Santana through blonde lashes.

"Well, that's a rather loose definition. I mean, if that's the case then me and Quinny must be bff's with the way she seeks me out in the halls in the hopes of making my life miserable."

A tiny giggle escaped from Brittany's lips, making Santana smile. She sat up a little straighter, taking a moment to fully take in Santana.

"But yeah," Santana shifted beneath her gaze, "I see Mercedes from time to time. Why?"

"Can you tell her that I didn't ask for this?"

"To be Queen?"

"No, white. She seemed really upset about it, but I don't have any control over it. It's how I was born."

Santana chuckled, "I think she knows that, and I'm pretty sure she was mad at Mr. Schuester, not you."

Brittany nodded.

"I'll pass the message along just in case, though."

Brittany smiled at that.

Santana returned it before turning to exit the room.

"Santana?"

She paused at the door, on the edge of the hall swelling with students, looking back over her shoulder at Brittany who sat in the all but empty classroom. "Yeah?"

"Don't let Quinn make your life miserable."

"I would have to care about her opinion in order for that to happen," Santana gave a light smirk.

"She really is harmless."

"Except that she's not, but I can handle it."

Brittany nodded.

Santana started to turn back but stopped, "Brittany?"

She raised an eyebrow in response.

"Um, don't let Quinn make your life miserable either."

Her eyebrow rose higher out of surprise.

"I mean, this whole Queen thing. I don't think she's taking it well. So just…yeah."

"Thanks," Brittany nodded again. "I don't know what Mr. Schue was thinking. Quinn was made to rule; naming me Queen was a crazy move."

"Really? Because I thought it was a genius one," Santana shrugged before fully exiting the room and allowing herself to be swept up in the wave of students.

+++gw+++

It was a Friday afternoon, and Santana, once again, found herself making her way into her dorm room instead of her Spanish class with a tall blonde on her mind. Nothing she had heard about the girl fit with what she saw and nothing that she saw fit with what she had heard from the girl herself. Nothing fit. Nothing about her made sense. And this was the girl that would be in charge of the entire student body for the remainder of her senior year. Perfect.

She tossed her book sack on the floor and sat on her bed. Her finger scrolled through the songs on her phone as she determined just what she was in the mood for. _Modern_, she realized. She had just decided on Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" being the perfect song for the moment when the door to her room opened.

"Another day, another slushy?" Santana questioned as she pressed play and the buzzing beats of the early Gaga song emitted through the wireless speakers on her desk.

"Not today," Rachel replied, her voice chipper.

Santana looked up to find that Rachel was, in fact, not covered in blue dye number 1, "What's the occasion?"

"I headed straight here instead of going to my last period, so nobody really had the chance to slushy me," she explained as she hung her book sack on the chair in front of her desk.

"So you deprived all of those peanut brained jocks and jock straps the opportunity to humiliate someone more talented than themselves in the hopes of raising their own self-esteem? How dare you."

"Did you just call me talented?"

"Just because I can't stand your taste or style when it comes to music, and life, doesn't mean I can't recognize a decent voice when I hear one."

"Thanks," Rachel sat on her bed with a faltering smile, "I think."

Santana chuckled.

"Jock straps?"

"Cheerios. Think of how they would look with their legs wrapped around the football players' waists—as they prefer to be—and they're basically jock straps."

"Oh God," Rachel rubbed her eyes forcefully as if trying to erase the image Santana had created from the back of her eyelids.

"So why are you here if not for slushy removal?"

"I don't remember now," she shook her head.

Santana chuckled, looking up as the door to their room opened again.

"Where is it, Rachel?" Kurt barged in, holding a tennis racket in his hands, poised to swing.

"Where is what?!" Rachel jumped back.

"You texted us 23-911. That's code for 'There's a squirrel in my book bag emergency'."

"What?" Santana's eyebrows jumped.

"The jocks thought it would be a funny joke," Rachel rolled her eyes.

"No, Kurt," Mercedes sighed as she followed him in. "I told you, that's 14-911. 23-911 is 'The boy I like ignored me, and I can't find my Barbara's Greatest Hits CD to cry it out to emergency'."

"Really?" Santana questioned.

"The CD varies for each of us," Rachel shrugged before turning to Kurt and Mercedes. "And I thought that was 32-911. 23-911 means 'We have juicy gossip that we need to discuss a.s.a.p. emergency'."

"Oo…" Mercedes and Kurt nodded.

"You guys have way too many emergencies," Santana shook her head.

"Such is the life of a diva," Rachel gave a tired sigh as Mercedes and Kurt joined her on the bed.

"Don't you have to be wildly successful with a huge entourage doing your every bidding in order to be a diva?"

"If you never act like one, you will never become one," Kurt instructed. "We all know it's in the cards for us, so why not start now? By the way, loving the vintage Gaga."

"Vintage? This song isn't even five years old yet. How is that vintage?"

"More importantly," Mercedes interrupted, focusing on Rachel. "What's the big gossip?"

"The big history project," Rachel beamed.

Mercedes scowled.

"You three just had history, right? That means you got your titles. Let's hear it," she sat up on her knees in excitement. "Santana, you first."

"Royal Jester," Santana bowed from where she sat atop her bed. "At first, I thought it was Mr. Schuester's way of getting me back for always one-upping him in class, by making a fool out of me, literally. But apparently, it gives me the right to make fun of whomever I want, even the royalty, without getting into trouble."

"Sound right up your alley," Rachel nodded. "Kurt?"

"Royal stylist, of course," he smiled.

Rachel gasped before she gave a small applause, "Bravo, Kurt. And might I say, there is nay a man or woman more suited for the job."

"Why thank you, my lady," he stood up and bowed, making Rachel giggle.

"Looks like we're all a part of the royal side of court," Rachel grinned. "Mercedes? Are we four for four?"

By this point, Mercedes was glaring daggers into Rachel's skull.

"Um…I'll take that as a n-no? Well, that's okay, then. There are plenty of other luxurious positions outside of royalty. I mean, you can be an upper middle class merchant, or a prominent artist or performer. I mean, it's not like you're a peasant or anything. Mr. Schuester would never—"

"Rachel, shut up," Kurt hissed.

Rachel's eyes widened, "Oh, Mercedes, I'm so sorry. I just… I can't believe he did that."

"Yeah, whatever," she waved her off. "It's just a stupid project. Nobody's going to take it seriously anyway."

"I am sure they won't. The whole reason for this project is the fact that this school is filled with slackers," Rachel nodded.

"I'm going to go get started on my homework for the weekend," Mercedes stood. "I haven't even started that stupid paper for British Lit."

"I'll come with you. I need to work on mine, too," Kurt offered, standing as well.

"No," Mercedes shook him off with a frown. "You stay here. You guys have a lot of royal things to discuss."

She left the room, closing the door behind her. Kurt fell back onto Rachel's bed with a sigh, "Nice going."

"What? How was I to know that Mr. Schue would name one of his own Glee Club members as a peasant? Let alone that she would take it so badly?" Rachel demanded.

"So what part of the royal side of court are you, Rachel?" Santana asked, trying to lessen the tension. "I mean, you said 'we' earlier."

"Ah, well, seems Mercedes took the wind out of the sails of my grand announcement, but I'll be big enough to forgive her for that," Rachel nodded, "for I am the town crier."

Santana snorted.

Kurt's eyelids fluttered as he leaned forward for clarity, "And that's a part of the royal court, how? I mean, you're the town drama queen. Santana and I aren't actual royalty, but at least we work directly under the King and Queen."

"It's not that kind of crier," Santana chuckled. "She's like a newspaper boy standing on the corner, yelling out the headlines."

"So, she's the town gossip?"

"Pretty much," Santana nodded.

"I'll have you know, that I report directly to the King or Queen or whoever's directly under them when they're busy. I'm not exactly sure what position is under them. I'm going to have to look it up."

"Well, there can be a variety of positions under them: missionary, doggy style," Santana began to list.

"Santana!" Rachel shrieked.

"My ears," Kurt covered his eyes.

Rachel cleared her throat, "What I was trying to say is that I report directly to the King and Queen just like you guys. And more importantly, I get to discuss all of the news with him which I am sure will take up a reasonable amount of time each and every morning."

"Ah…" Santana nodded.

"I see where this is going," Kurt agreed. "You're all excited because you get to spend time with _him_."

"Him?" Rachel feigned innocence. "Who is this him you speak of?"

"The King."

"Well, that is a part of my job, spending time with the King, and I am excited for my job, so yes."

"And the fact that this king you have to spend time with is none other than Finn 'I-look-like-I'm-pooping-when-I'm-thinking' Hudson has nothing to do with your excitement?" Santana pushed.

"Oh? Finn's been named king? I had no idea," Rachel shook her head.

"He takes history with you," Kurt pointed out. "The announcing of King was made during your class."

"Okay, okay, so maybe I'm a little bit excited about having an actual reason to be close to him without being called a stalker by all of his friends."

"You followed him into the bathroom one time," Kurt frowned.

"Rachel," Santana gasped. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I didn't realize that's where he was going," Rachel defended.

"Poor Finn isn't going to know what hit him," Kurt shook his head.

"Wait, poor Finn?" Santana cocked an eyebrow. "Am I hearing you correctly? He deserves what he's got coming with this one."

"Still, he's my brother."

"Your what?!" Santana nearly fell off her bed.

"Step-brother," Rachel corrected. "And don't let Mr. Holier Than Thou fool you. He got his stalker on with Finn too all of Freshman and Sophomore year. It wasn't until their parents were actually officially married that he backed off."

"What does everybody see in that guy? He's dumb, tubby, and a total douche," Santana shook her head. "I don't get it."

"He's dreamy," Rachel swooned.

Santana smirked, "And you have to report to him."

"Yes," she beamed.

"And slash or the Queen."

"Yes, although, last I heard, she wasn't named yet."

"Oh, she was named in our class," Santana's smirk grew.

Kurt grinned, catching on.

"Really? Oh, this is so exciting. Now, pray tell, who is the lovely Queen that I will be faithfully serving?"

"Brittany."

Rachel's face fell, "I'm dead."

.

* * *

.

Santana spent that entire weekend in the library, doing research. She ate food from the vending machine and only left to shower and sleep every night. She was surprised to note that the library was a lot fuller than normal, especially for a weekend. Weekends were meant for heading out to the nearby town to party with the locals, or going home to spend time with family, or pretty much anything but doing actual school work. It seemed though, that a significant part of the student body had taken Mr. Schuester's warnings of failure to heart and were taking the project seriously. Although, granted, none of them filled an entire subject in a composition like she had, but still, it was nice to have a little company for once, even if she didn't talk to or look at any of them.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, she was exhausted, bumping into every third person she passed in the hallway. She collapsed in her desk in homeroom, letting her head fall onto her arms.

"Hey girl, how's your essay coming? Mine kicked my butt this weekend," Mercedes greeted as she sat in the desk in front of her.

Santana raised her head with narrowed eyes, "Seriously, we're not friends—wait, what? The essay? Shit…I totally forgot."

"What?" Mercedes' eyes widened. "Don't you have British Lit first period? You do know the rough draft is due today, right?"

"Yeah, I just…I was doing research for the history project, and the essay completely slipped my mind," Santana scrambled to pull out her English binder and a led pencil.

"I'm so sick of hearing people talk about the stupid project," Mercedes rolled her eyes. "They act like they're actually going to participate or that things are actually going to change. The jocks will still be jocks and the nerds will still be nerds and the Glee Club members will still be at the bottom of the barrel getting slushied."

"We're supposed to be changing rooms," Santana reminded as she quickly read through the essay prompt in her binder.

"Like that's actually going to happen. You'll see,at first, people will play along half-hazardly, a rule or two might change like the uniform code or less homework or something, but I give it three weeks tops. After that, everyone will get bored of it, and things will go back to normal."

"You seem sure," Santana noted, scribbling out an introduction.

"You're not?"

"Power can be addictive," she shrugged, not looking up from her binder. "And this much power? I don't think people are going to be quick to give that up."

"Mr. Schue says they're going to have power, but you know any rule they change will have to be okayed first."

"I don't know, he seems to be taking this pretty seriously."

"I'm telling you…"

"Guess we'll have to wait and see."

"Excuse me, class," Ms. Castle, their homeroom teacher interrupted the students' conversations. "But homeroom today has been cancelled, and instead, I am told, that all of you need to report to the auditorium for a very important assembly."

"I doubt we'll have to wait long," Mercedes said as they gathered up their things and exited the room.

The doors up and down the hall were all opening as everyone else was dismissed from their respective homerooms and asked to go to the assembly hall. Santana followed Mercedes as she pushed her way through the increasingly crowded hallway. When they reached the assembly hall, they walked halfway down the stairs before finding seats in the middle of the auditorium.

The large room quickly filled up, and Santana cringed when she heard an excited voice call her name. Soon, Rachel was sitting next to her with Kurt crossing in front of them to sit by Mercedes.

"Who's ready for a coronation?" Rachel bounced in her chair.

"No longer afraid of your future Queen?" Santana asked. Thankfully, spending the whole weekend in the library meant she hadn't had to have a single conversation with the short girl the entire time.

"Well, I've been thinking about this. It's the King that makes the laws, and the Queen is just his arm candy, right? So, how often would it be that I have to actually report to her?"

Santana shuddered at the thought of the full responsibility of the student body falling on the shoulders of Finn Hudson, "Who's to say that the Queen isn't the ruler and the King is just arm candy that's been rotting for like ten years?"

"Well, Mr. Schuester said that the project was based on the height of the Renaissance period, and in lecture the week or so before he said that King Henry VIII ruled during that time."

Santana opened her mouth to protest, but changed her mind and remained silent instead. There was no point in arguing with Mr. Schuester's crappy teaching skills. It was what had gotten them all into this project to start with.

The auditorium lights dimmed slightly, and a spotlight focused on the wooden podium on stage. Mr. Schuester walked out to a mixture of applause and "boo"s. Santana had a feeling the latter came from the peasant population.

"Alright guys," Mr. Schuester grinned out at the crowd before him. "We all know what we're here for, so no need for any more long, drawn out explanations. This assembly is to kick off the history project that each and every one of you will be participating in. One of the biggest aspects of this project, at least physically, will be the assigning of new rooms. This process will begin today and go on through tomorrow."

Santana felt Mercedes stiffen beside her.

"Which, as I'm sure most of you will be happy to learn, means that classes have been cancelled for the next two days."

The auditorium erupted in applause.

"You cheer now," Mr. Schuester smiled. "But a lot of man power is going to be needed for this…a lot of _working_ man power."

The room immediately quieted as the meaning behind his words settled on everyone. Mercedes' hands clenched the armrests of her chair.

"If you think back to the cards that you received that announced your positions, there was even more information on the back. The first thing the back paragraph stated was a number. You need to remember those numbers as you will often be grouped by them. They offer a certain level of, let's say, clearance. It's a 1 through 10 ranking with 1 being the royal couple and 10 being the beggars."

"See, Mercedes," Rachel leaned over. "Peasants aren't the lowest spot. You have nothing to be mad about."

"You may want to sit back," Santana guided her back to her seat. "I have been carefully biding my time until just the right moment when I can thoroughly and severely kick your hairy, hobbit ass, and I would hate for Mercedes to take that very special moment from me."

Rachel gulped as she pressed herself as far back into her chair as she could.

"The moving will be done in an orderly manner and is scheduled out, starting with the ones and working down through the tens. All of the staff is equipped with the schedules and will be assisting during the moving process," Mr. Schuester explained. "Now, like I said in class last week, I know this is going to be a big adjustment, and I am going to give you all a two weeks grace period before I start deducting any actual points from your grades, but after that, I expect you all to be participating in full force."

"Staying with your timeline?" Santana whispered.

"So what if they're going through with this moving thing? This is going to last three weeks tops," Mercedes nodded.

"So, now that all of the boring stuff is out of the way, let's get down to business," Mr. Schuester waved his hands, and the curtains behind him parted, revealing two velvet lined chairs decorated in fake jewels.

"Theatre prop," Rachel informed.

Mr. Schuester looked to the side of the stage and gave an encouraging smile and motion of the hand, and Finn and Brittany walked out onto the stage, earning a standing ovation from a good portion of the crowd.

"Why do people eat up this jock and cheerleader shit?" Santana shook her head. "They support the very people that tease them."

"It's a messed up world in which we live," Mercedes nodded to Santana's left where Rachel was on her feet, cheering loudly.

"Everyone rise," Mr. Schuester stated.

Santana sighed as she stood. She and Kurt had to drag Mercedes to her feet.

Finn and Brittany each sat on a chair upon Mr. Schuester's bequest, and he turned back to the podium, pulling out something from beneath it. It was a pillow which he placed on top of the podium. Upon it lay two crowns. Mr. Schuester took the first, a thin, elegant design that glittered with jewels, and walked back to carefully place it upon Brittany's head. He then took the larger, equally jeweled crown and placed it on top of Finn's head.

"I present to you, Finn Hudson and Brittany S. Pierce, the King and Queen of William Mckinley Prepatory Academy."

He motioned, and the two seniors stood. Mr. Schuester lowered himself to one knee, and soon the entire auditorium, bar the royal couple, followed.

Santana looked up to where Brittany stood center stage, the spot light shining brightly down on her, though she didn't even flinch under it. She stood tall, her head high, the sparkling of her crown nowhere near the sparkle in her eyes. Goosebumps trailed along Santana's arms. She looked regal, like she belonged, like she was meant to have an entire auditorium of people bowing down at her.

Mr. Schuester stood, and the rest of the audience soon followed. Santana released the breath she didn't recall holding. They were dismissed, and Mercedes bolted out of the hall.

"She's wrong, isn't she?" Kurt questioned, watching as Rachel hurried off after her. "Mercedes, she's wrong. This is going to be big, huh?"

"Very big," Santana nodded.


End file.
